Film Review: Night of the Living Dead (1968)

The American Dream, a cornerstone of national identity, is built on the principle that anyone, regardless of origins, can ascend through talent and perseverance. George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968) epitomises this ethos. Despite its shoestring budget of $114,000, Romero’s science fiction horror film transcended its modest origins to become a cultural juggernaut, influencing decades of global popular culture. Yet, its legacy is paradoxical. While celebrated for its grassroots success and genre-defining impact, the film also serves as a sardonic critique of the very society that propelled it forward. Critics and scholars have dissected its themes relentlessly, unearthing layers of social commentary beneath its surface. This duality—its commercial triumph as a low-budget exploitation film and its subversive interrogation of American myths—makes Night of the Living Dead a uniquely complex artifact of 1960s cinema.

For most audiences encountering it in its initial run, however, the film was merely a gory, adrenaline-fuelled B-movie. Released during a period when censorship restrictions were collapsing, Night of the Living Dead capitalised on the era’s appetite for visceral thrills. Drive-in theatres and grindhouses catered to Baby Boomers seeking escapism, and Romero’s film fit snugly into this niche. Its graphic violence—depictions of severed limbs, cannibalistic “ghouls,” and a tone that leaned into exploitation—positioned it as part of a wave of films pushing boundaries for shock value. The script’s simplicity, though, masked its eventual resonance; viewers were less likely to ponder its societal underpinnings than to revel in its unapologetic horror. The MPAA’s nascent rating system, still lax in its early years, allowed such content to flourish, ensuring the film’s place as a cult hit rather than a serious artistic statement.

Romero and co-writer John A. Russo crafted a narrative that, while straightforward, introduced a premise that would reshape the genre. The story begins in a Pennsylvania cemetery, where siblings Barbra (Judy O’Dea) and David (Russell Streiner) visit their father’s grave. Barbra’s sombre mood contrasts with David’s playful attempts to rekindle childhood games, a dynamic disrupted when a dishevelled man (Bill Hinzman) attacks David. Barbra flees to an abandoned farmhouse, discovering a half-eaten corpse. Enter Ben (Duane James), a Black protagonist whose resourcefulness—boarding windows, arming the house—contrasts with the panic of other survivors. Inside, Ben finds a family—Harry (Karl Hardman), Helen (Marilyn Eastman), and their ill daughter Karen (Kyras Schon)— plus young couple Tom (Keith Wayne) and Judy (Judith Ridley). Tensions escalate as the group debates survival strategies, their fracturing cohesion mirroring the chaos outside. Radio reports hint at a global crisis, but the survivors’ isolation amplifies their vulnerability.

The film’s production was a testament to resourcefulness. Shot on a condemned farmhouse slated for demolition, with a cast of non-professionals (including Russo’s wife and Romero’s friends), Night of the Living Dead relied on practical effects and improvisation. Duane Jones, an African American actor, brought gravitas to Ben, a role originally written for a white character. The lack of professional actors lent a raw authenticity, while Romero’s direction—rooted in his TV experience—balanced chaotic scenes with deliberate pacing. The black-and-white cinematography, though dated, muted the graphic violence’s shock, shifting focus to the characters’ psychological unraveling. The film’s most innovative choice was its documentary-style interludes: faux news broadcasts and military reports underscored the crisis’s global scale, blurring fiction and reality. Yet, the soundtrack—a patchwork of stock music—felt anachronistic, a minor flaw in an otherwise cohesive vision.

Romero’s true innovation lay in his rejection of gothic or supernatural tropes. Unlike earlier horror films set in haunted castles or distant realms, Night of the Living Dead transposed its terror to a mundane rural setting. The “ghouls” threaten everyone indiscriminately, erasing social hierarchies. Wealth, status, or morality offer no protection; the apocalypse is a leveller. This universality made the threat feel immediate, a critique of societal complacency. The survivors’ helplessness—arguing over plans, doubting each other, failing to comprehend the horror—mirrored the helplessness of Americans grappling with the Vietnam War and civil unrest. Romero’s camera lingered on ordinary people confronting the unimaginable, a perspective that amplified the film’s emotional weight.

The “ghouls” of Night of the Living Dead became synonymous with “zombies,” a term popularised by the film. While inspired by Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend and its relatively obscure first screen adaptation, Romero’s vision diverged, creating a template for the “zombie apocalypse.” Unlike the Haitian folklore-inspired zombies, Romero’s creatures were mindless vectors of chaos, their resurgence driven not by magic but an unexplained biological plague. This premise allowed endless permutations, from Dawn of the Dead (1978) to modern franchises like The Walking Dead. The trope’s adaptability across media—from video games to literature—stems from its simplicity and flexibility, enabling allegories for consumerism, political decay, or societal collapse.

The film’s subtextual critiques of 1960s America are layered yet unambiguous. The era’s racial tensions are encapsulated in Ben’s character. As a Black man in a white-dominated group, he faces distrust and aggression. The climax—a tragic misidentification by a redneck militia—echoes real-world violence against Black Americans, particularly during civil rights protests. Meanwhile, the inept military and political figures onscreen mirrored those in Southeast Asia, their incompetence a metaphor for the Vietnam quagmire. Romero’s indictment of social problems was subtle, perhaps even unintended, but nevertheless there. Critics initially dismissed these themes, fixating on its exploitation elements, but later analyses revealed its incisive social commentary.

Despite its critical neglect, Night of the Living Dead became a financial triumph, earning millions and cementing Romero’s career. Its success allowed sequels like Dawn of the Dead and Day of the Dead, each expanding its mythos while maintaining its socio-political edge. However, a failure to renew copyright protection led to unauthorised spin-offs and a 1990 remake by Tom Savini, diluting its canonical legacy. Yet the original’s influence endures, its blend of low-budget grit and high-concept storytelling a blueprint for independent cinema.

Night of the Living Dead is a multifaceted work that defies easy categorisation. Its commercial success as a B-movie belies its cultural significance, a film that both exploited and transcended its era’s conventions. Romero’s vision, though rooted in exploitation, probed the fissures of American society, using zombies as metaphors for its deepest anxieties. Decades later, its themes—of fear, inequality, and collective collapse—remain eerily relevant, ensuring its status as a landmark in horror and beyond.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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