There’s a freedom to being dead on-stage. And not in a “I partied too long and too hard last night and now I don’t have the energy to form the words and emotions like I’m supposed to” dead-on-stage way, but in an actual “fresh out of the grave” way. In all the times I’ve been in a show (or a play; theatre people will tell you there’s a difference), I’ve always been myself on stage. Not me being a character who’s close to who I am in real life, but me being self-effacing and awkward because then it’s just Sean on-stage being Sean aware of himself being on-stage and not really being in the moment. Because if I ever made a mistake I’m already one step ahead of the audience in mocking myself.

Which is more psychology than I normally reveal at one time.

Being part of Weird City Theatre‘s adaptation of George Romero’s cult classic Night of Living Dead has been a revelation for me in terms of stagework. There is literally nothing to do being dead except move around and not get in anyone else’s way. Oh, and eat people. Well, for pretend. Except, it doesn’t feel like pretend. It feels like I’m a hungry zombie looking for a take away snack. I’m engaged at being disengaged. Honestly, these are probably my best roles ever (next to being Peter in The Zoo Story, but my frustration and horror that piece of théatre vérité was real because Chad (“Jerry”) didn’t remember a single line of his). I’ll never be on Law & Order, maybe never even be on stage again, but that’s OK because I’m totally satisfied with what I’ve been doing.





And having seen the show about 200 times now, I have a few thoughts on the experience:

The cast is a hoot. According to recent reviews, we verge on camp, but that’s just everyone’s natures shining through the dread.





To Drag or Not to Drag. In an early rehearsal, it was decided I was to drag the recently-murdered Ben (OK, murdered by me) from the house on the business end of a meat hook. We would do it in pantomime without qualms, but when John, the director, gave me the real thing, I became… qualmful. Technical aspects aside. The implicit criticism of racism in the original movie aside. The dangerously sharp end of that fucker aside. All that aside, dragging a black man on a meat hook in Texas (Austin or not) seems like bad form. I’m glad that when it came down to the pointed moment, we had to change directions and carry Ben away. Yeah, it would have been gruesome beyond compare, but I would have felt the need to apologize to the audience in advance.





Horror does not bring out the best in us. Contrary to what Gabriel said in “Constantine“, people are more apt to snap under pressure than to be uplifted by it. It’s like losing a job. Sure, while one was working, maybe one gave quarters to the homeless guy at the red light or attended a $500-a-plate charity event, but once the screws are on, this guy will have nothing left to give, and will most likely jealously guard whatever he has left. During a zombie apocalypse, “compromise” will be the first victim thrown against the wall. When their lives are at stake, people will become conservative with the risk taking. Of course, what conservative means is open for interpretation, and bring us to the next point.





Someone always has to be right and/or have the last word. No matter how crackpot someone else’s idea is about the best way to survive in a farmhouse surrounded by the undead, yours sounds equally stupid to them. Telling you this now won’t matter in the crucible because you’ll be too busy getting conservative. Basement with no way out or first floor with too many points of entrance. Pick your poison. Of course, if the farmhouse has a second story, this may be the one time that running upstairs in a horror movie may benefit you. The undead are notoriously clumsy and can’t negotiate steps very well. Why no one thought of that is beyond me, but then again, in the midst of a crisis trying to pick between two equally wretched options, this third possibility won’t occur to you either. (And don’t forget to vote next week!)





“We’re them and they’re us.” According to some article I read somewhere, there are now more people alive on Earth than have ever been alive in previous generations. This data seems spurious at best, but let’s run with it for a second. Of the six billion people now alive, how many of them are freshly born or verging on death? According to the World Clock, that’s about 2 billion people. Now imagine those crawling babes and limping elders imbibed with the relentlessness and vigor of a zombie. Suddenly, Gramma, that sweet, white-haired doyenne, seems like more of a threat, doesn’t she? Forget being left out of her will. Try to stay out of her gaping maw, slick with the viscera of the unwary. Also, I’ve been told that my portrayal of a redneck deputy is much scarier than either of my zombies, particularly when I’m handed the aforementioned meat hook and grin like a maniac in anticipation of using it. Who would you rather meet on a deserted country road in the middle of the night – a zombie or a deputy with the law on his side?





On a more personal note, I totally need to do something nice for Nick-at-Night for making my blood condoms every night and John Carroll for washing my underwear. I don’t even think my Mom washes my underwear anymore when I go home. Such are the strange intimacies of theatre.

Finally, this is my real life story of a zombie encounter. A good friend of mine, Erin, enjoys hosting themed movie nights. Yes yes yes, you may say, so do many other people; it’s like a costume party for your TV. BUT, I say, she proved her ability was above that of regular people from the get-go: our first gathering was called “Canadians Can’t Make Films” with it’s centerpiece movie, “The Apple“, a 1980 musical about the American music industry that boasts lyrics like “it’s a natural natural natural desire to meet an actual actual actual vampire” (how I WISH I were kidding!) and ends in a psychedelic “deus ex gold rolls royce” that leads to questions of where the writers got their pot from.

Inspired by the trailers shown at the all-night George Romero fest The Drafthouse hosted at Settler’s Farm (or whatever that place off Parmer Lane is called), Erin invited a bunch of the usual suspects to her condo to watch “Virgin Among the Living Dead” (starring Christina von Blanc, so you KNOW it’s good, as my friend Bill used to say) and an unexpectedly frightening “Dead & Buried” (starring Melody Anderson, actually twisting the knife after stabbing her career in the heart with her rather wan (but funny) role as Dale Arden in “Flash Gordon” (which i love)), which left the whole party a bit shaken and thinking that watching movie in a darkened condo under a HUGE picture window was a bad idea. (Watch the movie; you’ll know what I mean.) The party dispersed with assurances that we would call one another when we each arrived home safely. My friend PJ and I saw the ladies to their cars, then walked to the main street where we were parked.

“I was TOTALLY blind-sided by that last movie! I mean, it was supposed to be a piece of crap, right?” he said. “So why am i still thinking about it?”

“I think we were deceived by the advertisements. When Erin and I saw the trailer originally it was in the company of ‘Abby, the Black Exorcist‘ and ‘Creepshow II’ and… what are you looking at?” I asked because PJ was now staring at something over my shoulder. I turned around and waaay at the other end of the street was a figure – tall, thin and SHAMBLING towards us. Its drunken, unsteady steps moved it forward, but it would be on the verge of falling over one moment, then righting itself before listing in the other direction, like a sailboat in a gale wind.

PJ and I, being horror movie fans and somewhat cynical observationalists were moved to COMMENT on the thing on the street even though we knew we should be running away.

“It may be the movie talking,” he said, “but it looks like…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Well, DOESN’T it? It’s a zombie. It has to be!”

The thing faltered momentarily, righted itself and started towards us again.

“But here in austin? Really? Do people around here get into that kind of messing with unnatural forces?”

We were silent for several minutes, transfixed by what was now clearly a gaunt – to the point that its cheeks and eye-sockets were black craters under the harsh streetlights – human-shaped being coming towards us. Its left arm dangled uselessly at its side while it’s right arm failed as though it were being dragged down the street by a will not its own. We watched and, even though we knew better, we DID. NOT. RUN.

“We should run,” PJ suggested.

“We totally should,” I agreed.

Yet we didn’t.

By this point I’m trying to remember any Latin phrases or verb conjugations (“3rd or 4th declination? hmmm… actually, I think 2nd is for commands.”) useful for abjuring the undead while this thing is more or less on top of us. By now we could see it in with perfect, horrible clarity – the hollow features, the dry fly-away hair, a ripped shirt revealing skin stretched across visible ribs, filthy pants and a… a…

a poodle.

when the dog minced its way from behind a car, it became clear who was taking whom for a walk, and that they were both (rather disappointingly) alive. Whatever amphetamine had robbed this man of his vitality so much so that his poodle could pull him around like Charlie Brown behind his kite… well, let’s just say it was a cautionary example for both PJ and I. The man stumbled his way between us – our mouths agape – and his fluffy mutt growled a warning at us. “Sorry,” the owner mumbled, not looking up.

That’s when we called it a night. “Living dead” indeed!



HAPPY HALLOWEEN!



Awwh!