Dead Alive (1992)

directed by Peter Jackson

Seth Troyer

 At this moment, I am five years old. I have just brought home a copy of the animated Rankin/Bass adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Who knows if the VHS was suggested to me by someone at the local library or if I just grabbed it because I was enamored by the menacing red dragon on the cover. Either way, the film is blazing like a fire before me now. Many obsessions shall stem from this night. I dance around in ecstatic joy to the sound of goblins singing joyfully as they pull dwarven heroes into the bowels of their kingdom. In between the dance numbers I notice that there is indeed danger here, real danger. The beasts that stand in the way of the dwarven adventurers are twisted looking abominations. Devilish trolls, cackling spiders, and of course the demonic looking Smaug. Perhaps I am too young to fear them, too confident in the resilience of the colorful heroes that journey ever onward.

Off screen, a minstrel sings to me in a faux John Denver voice: “The greatest adventure is what lies ahead.” I do not cower as the goblins advance. I jump on the couch and dance, bathed in the light of the little television screen, in the otherwise pitch black of our family living room. I am unafraid.

*

Here we are! The final years of the 1990s. In the time since I brought The Hobbit VHS home, I have immersed myself in fantasy. I have read all three books in Tolkien's great trilogy. Encyclopedias about worlds that do not exist are stacked in my bedroom. I write endless pages of my own fantasy epics.

During this time it has become apparent that I am something of a nervous child. My overactive imagination sometimes leads me to expound and obsess over every little fear or phobia that I come in contact with. I am shown hazy videos at school about house fires and how there are shadowy, wraith-like figures called strangers who when spoken to, would take children like me away forever. I am prone now to sobbing fits in my bedroom, every sound that I hear in the night conjuring up images of these “stranger men” crawling through my window and taking me away. I sleep on my parents’ floor frequently during this time.

The phrase “look away” seems to be a necessary mantra for my parents during films to keep Seth from returning to sleep on their floor. My night fears persist. When I “look away” my wild imagination conjures up horrid visions of what might be happening on the screen, what might reside on reels of tapes with threatening box covers at Blockbuster.

By Halloween 1998 I now have a best friend who is not a scaredy cat. I arrive for trick or treat. I nervously approach my friend, who is unafraid. He is hooded and cloaked, carrying a scythe, his face locked behind a bloody skull that drips when a button is squeezed. “Let’s go,” commands the skull, and I follow as gory decorations cause me to “look away.”

“Don't worry! It's all fake,” says a mom plopping candy into my sack. “I like your father time outfit!”

“No.” I reply. “I am Gandalf the Grey!” None of the moms on this street seem to be Tolkien fans.

*

It is now 2001 and my dream has come true. The live action Lord Of The Rings trilogy has come. It is directed by some guy named Peter Jackson. He apparently made scary movies when he was younger. Despicable! How could someone do something so cruel and horrible, and still be allowed to touch this holy trilogy?

The film is given a PG-13 rating and my mom rightfully fears further nights of Seth whimpering at 3 am. I ultimately go with my father, but the “look away” mantra is in full effect. The second it begins, I know I am in love, but remember the MPAA rating. “Look away,” says Dad, before every quick cut to a nightmarish looking orc. It's as if dad is taking cues from a pamphlet entitled “Guiding your scaredy-cat son through Jackson's new film.”

As I turn away, I am once again greeted by my imagination, which conjures bloody scenes from an imaginary rated-R Tolkien film. Eventually, my dad turns to me, sort of smirking. “Oh, it's not that bad, you can look.” I look. Aragorn twists his sword and decapitates an orc chieftain. On paper this is perhaps the most frightening scene in the whole film, and indeed my reaction was to recoil and shield my face but suddenly my ears are filled with an unexpected sound. People in the theater are cheering. There is a shared catharsis. I am suddenly not afraid. Jackson can make decapitation kind of fun. Who the hell is this guy?

*

Here we are. I am a scaredy cat, traversing crowds of teenagers in my high school cafeteria. It's the crucial “where do I sit” moment. Options slowly break down. It becomes apparent that I am going to sit with a particular crew of acquaintances who will ultimately become my dearest long-term friends.

These friends come from relatively diverse backgrounds. This is something of a revelation to a kid who is only beginning to realize that people who weren't brought up with his particular conservative background are not always alcoholic pagans. They curse, skip church, and often say that they not only enjoy horror movies, but find them humorous. The details of these films are discussed. I shrink into the background. Horror had always been the lowest of art forms to me, purely for degenerates. Regardless of the excuses I spew out, at this moment I am still simply terrified of them.

I attempt to change the subject back to the upcoming Sam Raimi Spider-Man 3 film, which we have all agreed will surely be the greatest film ever made.

“Oh yeah!” says Jonah. “The Evil Dead guy!”

“What?” I reply, as if he is speaking in tongues.

“Yeah! Raimi directed these horror movies before Spider-Man, they are great! Really funny!”

I am attempting to understand how this all could be possible, when Robin chimes in. “Oh yeah! Like Peter Jackson!”

“What?” But then I remember this fact. I had tried to ignore it years ago. I think of all those orcish “look aways” and it all starts to make sense.

Robin goes on. “Oh yeah, Dead Alive! The goriest film ever made!”

“Hell yeah!” Carter plops his lunch tray on the table triumphantly. “My house, after school! We're watching the goriest movie ever made!” A cheer of agreement echoes across the table. I smile and nod.

Naturally teenage plans fall through. It takes a month or so for it to get brought up again and rescheduled. During that time, a side faction of other scaredy cats and myself silently agree to prepare. We watch Night of the Living Dead. I don't look away this time. My fellow scaredy cats laugh and I am surprised by it, but I realize it's not morbid laughter, it's the sound of being overwhelmed, of release. Cut to credits. We smile and feel as though we have all been through something together.

A blink of an eye and here we are at Carter's house. A group of us is here witnessing Dead Alive, and It is agreed upon very quickly to indeed be the “goriest film ever.” Laughter comes, that laughter of mutual release, it guides me through the splatter. I notice, though, that there is intentional and unintentional full-on hilarity here amongst the prosthetic gore. I am enjoying myself. I wonder, have I been broken? Are we all twisted? Grandma zombies eating dogs? A priest using martial arts to cut through zombies? Witty one liners? Is this evil? Could the man who gave me one of the key cinematic moments of my late childhood also be responsible for one of the goriest films of all time? Can I enjoy both? The answer is clear. Yes, of course.

On that couch, laughing with my friends as a pile of intestines chases a lady down a hallway, I think about the evil and cruelty in the world. This display of morbid fireworks was not a part of it. This was fake. This had always been apparent, of course, but there was suddenly something very new to that phrase. The outrageous things I had imagined in my “look away” moments were also fake. They didn't point to some sort of moral failing, they were delusions. This too was a delusion, and I could stare it in the face now, see its homemade flaws, see finally that it meant me no harm!

I watch a young man running, not just from zombies but from his past. He feels endlessly obligated to his past, to the old woman who controls his life, but even after the blood hits the fan and she has become a ravenous zombie, he does not hate. The young man before me is realizing, through the absurd scenarios, that there simply comes a time to separate, to grow, to surprise yourself.

On screen, a groovy party is now filled with shrieking zombies. The young man, despite being coated in blood, despite having everything suddenly turned upside down, smirks wild-eyed and unafraid at the oncoming horde. He brandishes a lawn mower. “Party’s over!” It comes out of him as a defiant crackle. The thing in his hands switches on and he dives into a sea of horrors. He is unafraid.

*

Here I am now in 2020, typing up this essay about Dead Alive as it plays in the background. It's a strange one to watch on one's own (COVID is a killer). Without the party aspect, you start to feel like you're the only one in the audience at a circus.

Even here in the present, some of this movie just kind of grosses me out, and that's okay. They say that sometimes exposure can be the ultimate remedy. Dead Alive is like jumping from the kiddie pool into the middle of the ocean. I am now a horror movie fan, and understand that the macabre is something that can be a very powerful aspect of art. There is something life affirming about diving into a sea of horrors and coming out the other end, ready for life, remembering it was all just prosthetics and food coloring, just fun and games.

“Dead Alive.” A lovely contradiction. An absurd phrase that seems to accidentally stumble into the truth. That no one here on screen is actually dead. These are adults, playing a silly game. This weird little movie once again cuts to its credits, leaving me to look away, alone in the living room with my imagination. At this moment, nothing morbid comes out of my brain. Jackson has done it all for me, outdoing my nightmares. I do imagine something though, a lovely, dreamy image. The cast, who are of course not dead, but very much alive, all still dressed in their fake gore, taking each other's remaining prosthetic appendages in solidarity. They grin triumphantly toward the applauding audience. They lean forward, and take a final bloody bow. Unafraid.

Seth Troyer is a Columbus, Ohio-based writer and filmmaker. His film writing has been featured on Dread Central, The Geekiary, and the Madd Wolf film site. He earned his BA from The University Of Akron and is on an endless quest to get his first novel published. He wishes you well, and for your days to be without fear.