The Zombie Series or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Bruno Mattei

Anyone interested in horror movies, particularly those films at the trashier end of the spectrum, must at one time or another have seen, read up on or heard about Lucio Fulci's 1980 horror classic Zombi 2 (or Zombie, or Zombie Flesh Eaters or, well, a whole host of other titles) and the bewildering array of sequels which followed it. While the horror genre is renowned for milking its franchises to death and wringing every last bit of life from a successful film, the saga of the Zombie series demonstrates this practice taken to its logical conclusions.

Friday the 13th, Halloween, The Amytiville Horror, A Nightmare on Elm Street, all these films and many, many others spawned endless, increasingly crummy sequels, which eventually rendered the original films laughable. But the Zombie series of films is probably the most interesting horror franchise of all to examine, purely because it is so fragmentary, so unofficial and so dogged by the cynical marketing ploys of home video companies that it is positively bewildering to contemplate. Let's see if we can untangle its threads and chart the development of this bizarre and schlocky bunch of films.

In 1979, George Romero's Dawn of the Dead was released in Europe and became an overnight smash-hit. Zombie 2, which was actually written before George Romero completed Dawn, was released in Europe as an unofficial sequel to Romero's movie. You see, Dawn of the Dead was released in Europe with the title Zombi, so those cagey marketing men in Rome decided to cash in on the success of Dawn by releasing Fulci's outing as Zombi 2 (or Zombie 2. From here on out I'm going to refer to the films using the title Zombie rather than any other variant - there are literally dozens of variations of the titles of all the films in the 'series').

However, something very odd happened to this quickie cash-in: it was a hit at the box office. A huge hit in fact. In Europe Zombie 2 was as successful, if not more so, than Dawn of the Dead, and this isn't as unbelievable as you might imagine.

While most film buffs and movie critics agree that Romero's Dawn of the Dead is a thoughtful allegorical film about American consumerism, the response to Zombie 2 was, and remains, fairly sniffy. The film was lambasted as a generic exploitation flick with very little merit, a criticism which I find unfair.

I mean, any film featuring a scene in which a zombie fights a real-life shark under water deserves at least a modicum of respect, right?



Hell, I got a real kick out of that scene again just finding the YouTube link. But novelty isn't all the film's got going for it. The make-up and gore effects in the movie are so impressive and revolting that it wasn't until as recently as 2005 that the movie was released uncut in the UK. Anyone who has seen the infamous eyeball-meets-splinter scene will doubtless wince at being reminded of it, and the offal-munching scenes and zombie get-ups are superb. Even the soundtrack's great:



Sure, the movie's hampered by bad dubbing, a few logical inconsistencies and occasionally sluggish pacing, but it's no worse than most of the schlock churned out of Hollywood and it's an enjoyable romp, in no way deserving of the critical scorn poured upon it.

Still, no matter. Zombie 2 made money so, naturally, Zombie 3 had to be shot. Although interestingly, here's where the infamously odd and semi-official nature of the Zombie 'series' begins to make itself known. The film released as Zombi 3, directed by Lucio Fulci (in the main) was not released until 1988, - a full 8 years after Zombie 2, which appeared in cinemas in 1980.

In the interim however, two other zombie movies were unleashed which could have been deemed 'sequels' to Fulci's Zombie 2. Zombie Creeping Flesh, while technically not part of the Zombie series, acts as a sort of unofficial prequel to Dawn of the Dead, in that it features four boiler-suited marines who bear more than a little resemblance to those seen at the start of Dawn as the film's main protagonists. It's also a thoroughly inane but harmless movie, noteworthy only for its atrociously bad dubbing, piss-poor humour, anundant stock footage and a brilliant soundtrack by Goblin (although that was half-inched from the film Contamination but, m'eh). It was also directed by one Bruno Mattei, who we'll come back to shortly.

A more serious contender for the dubious honour of following up Fulci's film was Marino Girolami's Zombie Holocaust, which stars Ian McCulloch (the star of Zombie 2) and features Dakkar, who also appeared in Fulci's movie. Jay Slater points out in his brilliant book Eaten Alive! that the producers of Holocaust used Zombie 2 as the template for their film and simply chucked in a few cannibalistic elements to justify the presence of the word 'Holocaust' in the title. According to IMDB, Zombie Holocaust was actually released as Zombie 3 in America before Zombi 3, which was subsequently released in the States with the 'e' absent from the film's title. Confused yet? This 'series' only gets more and more mind-bending in complexity as it goes on.

Anyway, Fulci began filming Zombie 3 in the Phillipines in the latter half of the 1980s with a script written by Claudio Fragasso, who also happened to pen Zombie Creeping Flesh. All was not well however, with Fulci being taken violently ill during the shooting of the film and directorial duties were handed over to Bruno Mattei, the man who brought us Terminator 2 and Jaws 5.

The resulting motion picture is probably (and undeservedly) the most villified of the Zombie films. Sadly, because this is the official sequel to Zombie 2, expectations were high and the hodge-podge turned in by Mattei (but released with Fulci alone credited as director) did not compare favourably with its predecessor. Zombie 3 was not released theatrically outside Italy but was a firm favourite with low-rent video firms, who ensured its notoriety world-wide.



After this embarrassment Fulci ceased to have any involvement with the Zombie films, but this didn't stop a cabal of writers, directors and producers from releasing further installments to cash in on the cult reputation of Zombie 2, which by this point was infamous in the UK and world-wide for being included on the DPP's 'video nasty' list. Indeed, Zombie 3 was let loose in the UK under the title Zombie Flesh Eaters 2, making the most of the UK title of Fulci's original film.

Zombie 3's writer Claudio Fragasso would lens the next in the Zombie series, originally filming his movie under the title After Death. As was only natural, the resulting shambolic mess that Fragasso produced was released on home video in the States and Europe as Zombie 4: After Death, and in the UK as Zombie Flesh Eaters 3, despite the fact that the plot of the film itself has nothing whatsoever to do with the preceding movies. Zombie 4 itself is truly awful, looking like an Iron Maiden music video and boasting the kind of cheesy score that seemed to infest b-productions produced in the '80s. The fact that the film's male lead had a day job as a porn star should tell you what kind of territory the movies were now entering. Logic and good taste were entirely cast aside but thanks again to the series' notoriety, the movie was a financial success on home video, paving the way for Zombie 5.

Zombie 5, as it appeared in the USA, is the strangest and most tangential of all the Zombie series. In actual fact it was shot two years before Zombie 4 with the title Killing Birds. As The Cinema Snob has pointed out, Zombie 5, despite its title, isn't actually a movie about zombies at all: instead it's a god-awful cheapie about a murderer blinded by birds, whose wife returns from the dead to exact revenge on her bloodthirsty husband. (Actually, I should point out that's just my interpretation of the plot - the presence of the movie's 'mummy' creature is never explained in the film itself). This film has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the Zombie series but thanks to cynical video companies exploiting the Zombie name it has become canon.

Shockingly enough, a Zombie 6 was released in America after the abomination of Killing Birds. This time a 1981 horror movie starring George Eastman of Anthropophagus and Porno Holocaust fame with the title Rosso Sangue was forced upon unsuspecting movie fans as Zombie 6: Monster Hunter. However, this film is better known as Absurd, the sort-of sequel to Anthropophagus, and has about as much to do with zombies as Casablanca.

This is what I mean about the Zombie series making an interesting cinematic case-study. While Halloween III is probably the most infamous horror sequel to bear no relation to the films preceding it, the diverse and sometimes completely irrelevant Zombie movies make that film look positively proper. The sad thing about the Zombie films is that, bar Zombie 2, they are unwatchable garbage, released purely to cash in on the underground notoriety and name value of Fulci's first movie. Indeed, as with most of the video nasties, had these films not been attached to the Zombie series, they would have long-ago have faded into complete obscurity. But it is now the case that you can purchase a legitimate DVD release of, say, Killing Birds which features extra features such as interviews with the cast. Imagine that: a name-only, crappy 'sequel' to a low-brow horror film is now available to own with more extras on the disc than the original release of (Cameron's, not Mattei's) Terminator 2. Boggles the mind, eh?

So what have we learned here? Well, apart from not to waste our collective time actually watching Zombie 5, the best thing we can take away from the Zombie movies is perhaps this piece of advice I'll offer to aspiring horror directors: shoot your living dead movie on 20-year-old film stock, fart all over it with synths and try to get it released as Zombie 7: Beyond the Grave. Shriek Show are bound to put it out and sad, nerdy horror fans like me will buy it, dissect it, analyse and argue about it, and you'll go down in history along with the likes of Fulci, Mattei, Fragasso and their ilk... Wait, wait! Come back! I was only talking hypothetically...!

The Stig is bigger than Jesus

On last night's edition of Top Gear the show's infamous 'fourth presenter', the Stig, removed his helmet on-camera for the first time in the show's history. Jeremy Clarkson had warned the nation in his Sun column that the programme's proceedings would offer viewers a TV moment so significant that it would, in his words, be like 'Neil Armstrong walking on the corpse of JR Ewing'. Of course Clarkson's tongue was firmly planted in his cheek, but at around 8:30pm the Stig removed his helmet and 'revealed himself' to be none other than F1-goliath and Ferrari poster-boy Michael Schumacher.

Of course this was all in good humour and nothing more than a stunt to make the first episode of this new series of Top Gear special, but the reaction to this 'revelation' has been astonishing. I've seen a lot of astounded, confused and disappointed reactions to the Stig's 'identity' in my Facebook news feed today, and one of the lead items on BBC News features an article in which a BBC spokesperson has had to officially deny that Schumacher was the 'real' Stig, and reassure the public that 'we'd never reveal the Stig's identity'.

Put bluntly, the Stig's identity can never be 'revealed' because 'he' is bigger than anyone who could emerge from beneath 'his' helmet. Top Gear have subtly created a modern myth in the Stig; a creation who actually transcends mere humanity. The Stig, like the Simorgh in Attar's Conference of the Birds, is a creation we all participate in. 'He' is a gestalt, a projection of our expectations. 'His' uniform exists only to make 'him' otherworldly and anonymous, and it is we (well, and Clarkson) who imbue Stig with his 'character'. The Stig is, essentially, like those 'ghost cars' the player can manifest in racing video games, which demonstrate the best route around the track; almost a neutral archetype of perfect driving. Stig, like the idea of 'Christ', is supernatural and transcendental. And decidedly not Michael Schumacher.

Clarkson was right when he said "I'm not sure Michael Schumacher is the Stig". Now stop worrying!

Download Festival 2009

This year's Download festival kicked off in fine style for me, with a Faith No More gig held at Brixton Academy the night before I was due to leave for Donnington. Even though Wednesday evening was the night of a strike on the Tube, my brother, Tom and I made it to the gig and back as smoothly as possible. I shan't go on and on, but Wednesday's return to their old stomping grounds saw Faith No More in fine form.





The journey started well enough around midday on Thursday, despite a small haze-induced mishap getting onto the M1. To our horror, some thoroughly selfish and melodramatic chap had decided to attempt suicide on the road itself near Birmingham, leading to a three-hour detour through East Anglia up to Donnington Park for us. Still, the irritation of nearly 6 hours of travelling was eased when Benj, Tom and myself met up with my brother and his friend Becky with ease by the campsite and pitched in for the evening. Rob's girlfriend arrived a bit later on bearing whisky and snacks.

After getting settled and getting suitably merry and red-eyed, we explored the extortionate fairground and Village, bought a few essentials and braced ourselves for a freezing cold night. My appalling lack of foresight saw me pack neither a bedroll or a pillow, so I spent the first night shivering in the foetal position using my rolled up trench coat as a makeshift cushion. Still, I was bladdered and so, naturally, content...

Friday began with a trip to the on-site supermarket to pay a stupid amount of money for tuppence ha'penny's worth of cooking stuff and we began the day with a barbecue and I braved the loos for the first and only time I spent at the fest. (Without wishing to dwell on the subject, to use a horrible cliche, you can't judge a book by its cover: a huge, long-haired bearded man emerged from the loo before me, bog-roll in hand and sweating, so naturally I feared the worst. Lo and behold, the Portacabin was positively sparkling!)

The entertainment kicked off, after a half-hour trudge to the arena, with a terrible band called The Blackout, who had the audacity to cover Faith No More's Epic. I couldn't understand the appeal but, m'eh, to each their own. We pitched up and opened beers, amazed by the blazing sunshine and the beards of some of our fellow revellers. Staind came next, so I spent some time getting into a Dutch sort of mentality.

I couldn't be bothered with the emo rumblings of Billy Talent on the main stage, so I abandoned our little party and went over to the Bedroom Jam stage to catch a band called White Man Kamikaze, who were really neat and seemed genuinely amazed at the size of the audience who'd turned out for them.

Killswitch Engage started on the main stage soon enough and sounded really tight. Again, they weren't really my thing being technical, rather than riff-based, but their set was pretty powerful, plus their rendition of My Last Serenade reminded me of countless nights spent in the Met Lounge in my younger days.

Not thinking I'd enjoy Limp Bizkit, I was quite surprised by how restrained they seemed and they genuinely gelled well. Korn, who followed, seem to have lost everyone but Jon Davis and Munky since I was last bothered about the band, but, again, they made me feel warm and fuzzy with nostalgia, so, m'eh, that was pleasant.

We headed down to the front of the stage during Korn's cover of 'Another Brick in the Wall' to prepare for Faith No More. I lost everyone else when I went off to buy cider but got in down the front by myself. The show, when it started, looked and sounded amazing and I loved leaping in unison with the crowd to From Out of Nowhere. Less fun was feeling my right leg to discover that my wallet had vanished. I looked in vain but the crowd was so huge that there was no way of fighting the tide. Thinking that action sooner rather than later would be the best course, I spent the remainder of Faith No More's set cancelling my debit card. I got back to camp alone and thoroughly annoyed that night, devoid of money or the means of getting hold of any more. Sleep was only possible after very heavy sedation.

Saturday started with my brother collapsing with heatstroke and so Tom, Benj, Beck and I marched off to the arena alone. Benj and Tom, being thoroughly lovely chaps offered to buy me the odd pint during the day and Becky bought me a pasta salad for dinner. God bless 'em...

Anyway, we kicked off the day with Devildriver, who managed to dish out the word 'motherfucker' with such carefree abandon that it ceased to mean anything at all by the end of their set. Mind, their riffs were neat and their gimmick for the day involved inviting the Guinness World Records people to witness the world's largest circle pit. From my vantage on the hillside, I could see this pit open up like a crop-circle and watched the dust start to fly. The band made their record comfortably.

Hatebreed gurned their way through a set of gym-metal before Down came and smoked out the whole arena with their icky-sticky riffage. Phil Anselmo looks just like he did in the video for Cowboys From Hell again these days and the band were just anthemic. Bury Me in Smoke simply blew me away.

Considering how hard my friends had been laughing about DragonForce, I was thoroughly amazed by their musicianship. If they'd been around in the 1980s, they'd have been one of the biggest bands in the world. I've never heard shredding like it.





We left the main stage after DragonForce to catch Lawnmower Deth on the Tuborg stage, who were hilarious. Song titles like Did You Spill My Pint?, midlands-accented stage banter, instrument destruction, a 'fish dance', 'Deth had it all. They also showed us how to combine the devil's horns hand sign with a closed fist to make a snail, which was nice of them.

I staggered over to the main stage again with the others for Marily Manson, who was simply abominable. To call his band the worst act of the entire festival wouldn't be going too far. Manson finished just as Prodigy were due to start on the second stage, so I hurried over with a fresh cider in hand after my brother had lent me £20.

Prodigy were astoundingly good, if a little quiet, and their recycling of the Breathe guitar riff to make a 'Breathe Version' made for entertaining listening. After about half an hour the band launched into Firestarter, which bores me to tears so I made the best decision I made in the time I was in Leicestershire: I went to see Anvil.

Anvil, stars of the recent movie Anvil: the Story of Anvil, were simply incredible. Their riffs were monstrous and pure, no-nonsense heavy metal. Lips' voice was powerful, his between-song banter endearing and the band's drummer was astoundingly talented. The band introduced ' a song about our favourite strand of pot' called White Rhino, which made me smile. Metal on metal sent me into a frenzy of windmill headbanging which barely ceased until the band had wrung the last out of their set's ending. Simply perfect, Anvil were my band of the festival.





I had just enough time to catch the end of Slipknot's set and hear Corey Taylor taking exaggeration to its logical conclusions as he urged us to sing along so loudly that 'the whole fucking world' would hear. Yes, quite. Still, I was gonzoed enough by this point to hurl my hair along with them with glee before heading back to camp.

I'd only got £4.75 in my pocket by this point and needed £5 to buy a 4-pack of cider so I did a bit of begging and scrabbling around for change, which was thoroughly embarrassing, before having to scrounge coppers from my tent. Mind, when I returned to camp, the others had arrived and were chatting and drinking. Callum, a chap who lives 'round the corner from me, stopped over for a couple of beers and we lit a barbecue for warmth. It was a heartwarming evening, even if my voice was utterly shot by this point.

Sunday began with cider for breakfast and a jaunt up to the Domino's pizza stand with Tom and Benj for £30(!) worth of pizza, which we scarfed in short order. Tom and I then headed to the arena in search of my wallet and some 80s metal. We wondered over to the Jaegermeister truck, which was a sight to behold, surrounded as it was by giant, inflatable bottles of the rancid stuff.

Tom and I had just enough time to catch the end of Tesla and a bit of Skin's set, both of whom were far heavier than I imagined they'd be, before queueing up for what seemed an eternity at Lost Property. Eventually I retrieved my wallet, minus my debit card and cash, and headed back to camp to meet the others who were packing up, thanks to the folks with cars having to work early on Monday. Tom and I bumped into our old friend Tobias as we were leaving, which was totally unexpected as we'd not seen him for years and was a nice way to end the festival. We all humped our piles of stuff along for what felt like an eternity and made off into the Leicester countryside, sun burnt, ravaged, sweating but happy, chattering about Lawnmower Deth and Slipknot's stage show...