Shaun of the Dead: The Comedy and Horror of the Everyday

The spooky season is the time of the year where we celebrate the horror genre, watching and rewatching classics that remind us why it's so awesome. And of course it's the best time to (re-re-re)rewatch Edgar Wright's modern comedy-horror classic, Shaun of the Dead. There's so much I could say about how good this film is and everything that it does well, but, given the time of the year, I want to talk about how it does that stuff, how it absolutely nails such a unique style of comedy horror that I don't think has been fully replicated since. Edgar Wright is kind of a genius, and I've talked about how much I love him many times before. I guess one reason he's one of my favourite filmmakers is that he's a film buff himself, and understands how film geeks think, how they watch things, and how they interact with the things they watch. This not only gives his films great intertextuality ("We're coming to get you Barbara!"), but it also means that, in the case of the Cornetto trilogy, he's able to take a sense of humour that stems from loving movies and pop culture and relate it back to the people watching. As a result, world-conquering aliens, badass cops and flesh-hungry zombies occupy the world of the mundane, squaring up to people who are just like us. It's the film equivalent of the movie memes you see on Twitter: jokes that are funny because the people writing them are in on it, not just understanding what they're referencing and how it works, but also understanding how other people interact with these things too. That's a big reason as to why I love the trilogy, and though Shaun of the Dead may only be my second favourite, it is a really good example of this style of comedy writing, and that's what I want to talk about today. This is a movie that gets both comedy and horror just right by relating them back to the everyday, taking these over-the-top, genre flavoured elements and placing them squarely in the humdrum world of the mundane

So we'll start with the comedy. All of the jokes in Shaun of the Dead come from a familiar place. Don't worry, this isn't going to be an essay of joke explanation, because nothing strips the fun away from comedy more than explaining why something's funny, so I'm not going to do that. This is an incredibly funny movie, everyone knows that and everyone's cool with it, so we can leave that there. But I do think that the role the comedy plays in the story is interesting. Shaun of the Dead is, for all intents and purposes, a romantic comedy, about a guy who's just trying to win back his girlfriend, make his mother happy and maybe have a sneaky pint at his local. Hell, there aren't even any zombies for the first half an hour. And when they do come, it's clear that they're entering our world. That doesn't cause our society to collapse and turn the world into a post-apocalyptic wasteland, it just means that everything is the exact same, just with zombies. When Shaun wakes up in the outbreak, he's still looking at the same to-do list. He's still got the same problems, and the funny stuff largely comes from the stuff that hasn't changed.

This is the comedy of the everyday, and the cyclical nature of the jokes makes that all the funnier. This being an Edgar Wright film, most of the jokes from the first half come back, only slightly differently. Pete's still a dick, the jukebox is still on random, and Shaun's still got red on him. We're fascinated with zombie stories that show the world scarred, warped and changed, but Shaun of the Dead is so genius because, well, pretty much everything's the same as it ever was. The biggest change comes at the end, where the world becomes more tolerant of the zombies, and everyone just kind of co-exists. In a way, it's the ultimate inverted zombie movie, one where none of the post-apocalyptic wish fulfilment actually happens. It doesn't go from bad to worse, just slightly dull to.... actually kind of nice. Because, realistically, you would still have the same problems. You wouldn't automatically become a badass zombie slayer. Edgar Wright doesn't take the audience out of their world, he just injects some genre-goodness into it, and then starts laughing at how dull it'd still be. It's not cynicism as much as it is clear-eyed savviness, because the anti-escapism turns out to bring its own brand of wild fun and dogged optimism. There's not much of a spectacle here, just familiar solutions to unfamiliar problems. Even the biggest setpieces work because their components are so rooted in the everyday. The jukebox scene is the perfect example, with everyday weapons (pool cues, darts, a fire extinguisher) melding with the irrefutable fact that everything can be improved by playing Don't Stop Me Now. As a spoof, it works because it sets up this crazy situation, only to present the audience with the stuff they already knew going in. The joke isn't on you, but it is all around you; made from the movies and music and video games and urban legends that you consume on a daily basis and turned into a backdrop for easily the most common what-if situation ever

So if its ordinary setting make it a good comedy, well then why does the horror stuff work? Well, kind of the same reason, actually. Obviously this isn't a straight horror movie, but like the best comedy horrors, it works because it nails both. It's not necessarily scary, but it ensures that you take the horror seriously. As a viewer, you recognise that the zombies are a legitimate threat, that they are something to be scared of. I think a lot of that comes from An American Werewolf in London, a notable favourite of Edgar Wright's. Seriously, if you haven't seen his introduction to the BFI screening of American Werewolf, do yourself a favour and check it out, because it's awesome. John Landis kind of wrote the comedy horror blueprint with that film, acing the balance that pretty much every genre mashup since has at least referenced. An American Werewolf in London works because it's incredibly funny and it's got well defined horror. As a subgenre, comedy horror is made up of those two components, and the strength of a film largely comes down to how much of  both of those they get right. Because when you absolutely nail them both, you get a third element that only comes from the other two working in absolute harmony: emotional investment. Take An American Werewolf's ending, with (INCOMING SPOILER) David dying in Alex's arms. An incredibly funny and pleasingly gory romp it may be, but, while you're watching it, you come to really care about what's going on. Again, this is a genre thing, because to find something funny or scary is to invest in it, and when both are working so well simultaneously, it lets the film unearth these emotional stings that actually resonate

Shaun of the Dead has these in spades, with Barbara's death and Ed's infection having a real impact that goes beyond the pure farce this could have been. Lesser spoofs lack that kind of weight, because they fail to tack down the legitimacy of the threat. Shaun (the film, not the guy) throws its likeable characters into a situation with real stakes. The gore isn't purely played for laughs, it's a real consequence, something that Shaun (the bloke this time) has to factor into his now considerably more difficult afternoon trip to the Winchester. Again, there aren't any concrete scares, but it roots itself into the horror genre because it fully understands what these genre trappings are and why they work before riffing on them, and the result is pretty glorious. The bonus is that, because it's still set in that painfully mundane suburban setting, the horror is fairly everyday too. I mean yeah, the zombies are scary or whatever, but the real horror in Shaun's life comes from his own failures: the pressure he faces to win Liz back and keep Ed happy and maintain his relationship with Barbara. The zombies are the horror of the story, but even they're treated as just another errand that he has to complete. That's the everyday horror of Shaun of the Dead, the fact that the horde of the undead that our hero has to face are just another responsibility for him.

It's no secret that this is one of the best comedy horrors of all time, and for me, that's because it always stays conscious of its setting. The jokes are razor sharp and consistently hilarious, and what makes them even better is the way the film absolutely understands what it's spoofing. Like with the other films in the trilogy, Edgar Wright made Shaun of the Dead a movie that understands the two worlds that film geeks live in; the glorious escapism of the films we watch, and the mundanity that we escape from. He sets this movie in the space between them, a balanced and unique brand of horror and comedy that's simultaneously outlandish and so ordinary. And it's because of this movie that comedy-horror was forever changed. 99% percent of films in the subgenre have borrowed something from this movie, and the fact that, 15 years later, it's still an awesome comic achievement is seriously cool. Stay gold, Shaun, I'll see you again next spooky season

Why is Kill List Scary?

Ben Wheatley is an absolutely fascinating director. His films have a weird kind of fluidity, like they can have any time or any genre and still feel like a Ben Wheatley film. I'm a huge fan of this guy because of this, and also because he kind of just gets film and how it works. Kill List is a really interesting movie, too. If you haven't seen it, watch it before you read this, but be warned, it's an incredibly disturbing film. I'd like to explore why that is, but I can't really do that without spoiling it, so definitely check it out and then come back here. Kill List is easily one of the best horror films of the decade, but doesn't really become one until the last 20 or so minutes. It's absolutely terrifying and deeply disturbing, but why? Is it the imagery? The ideas? The content?

Horror is such a great genre because the stuff that makes it scary always comes from somewhere. Something like The Babadook is scary purely because of the ideas it tackles (grief can force us into uncomfortable and unhealthy mindsets that can damage the ones we love), while something like The Thing is scary because of the imagery on show (which itself comes from the a fear of the mutilation of the human body). Good horror can provide an immediate shock, but great horror can burrow deep under the skin to provide something altogether more sinister

Kill List is an almost deceptively simple film. Two hitmen have a list of people to kill. They kill them. But from the start, it's obvious that things aren't okay. One of the men has a fairly tense relationship with his wife, something that immediately makes the audience uncomfortable. As their job progresses, the two have violent encounters that, while not necessarily scary, deepen the already incredibly unsettling atmosphere. When they encounter a cult near the end, the film really becomes a horror movie, leading to an ending that's so pitch black and deeply disturbing.

Obviously the ending is terrifying, and the film is very clearly a horror film. But where does the fear come from? The whole film has an atmosphere of dread, but it only becomes a full blown horror in the home stretch. So why is the whole thing so scary? How does this combination of domestic drama, hitman thriller and cult horror manage to blend these things so seamlessly and create such a nerve shredding experience? We know it's a scary film, but why? I think, for me, a large part of it is the progression of the dread. The film opens by showing us the strained relationship between the hitman and his wife, which builds into this unbearable sequence where they have the other hitman and his girlfriend over for dinner. This is incredibly hard to watch, and it starts the film on an immediately uncomfortable note. This should be the domestic portion of the film, the calm before the storm, but by dropping us into an already tense situation, but Ben Wheatley doesn't give us that. He puts us into something that's uncomfortable but familiar, and while this isn't something unique to this film, given the pitch black insanity that awaits the audience, it provides some interesting dissonance. We're uncomfortable at the beginning, but it comes from a place that we inherently understand. Even if we haven't experienced this kind of situation, we know that this is something that happens. It's not pleasant, in fact the whole purpose of it here is to make us uneasy, but it's not unusual. This is the starting point of a film that goes from familiar discomfort to a completely alien kind of deeply disturbing horror

Of course, we have to get there, and this is where the progression of dread comes in. Wheatley portrays the job itself as its own kind of horror. These men are hardly new to violence, but Wheatley takes the stark reality of bloodshed and uses it to once again unsettle the audience rather than scare them. It's not as familiar as the film's opening portion, but it shows us the harsh reality of being an assassin. As the second act goes on, however, it begins to become more and more disturbing, not just for the audience, but for the characters too. They find themselves in a position much deeper and more disturbing than they intended when they took the job. They encounter some horrifying things, and begin to realise something isn't right. This is brilliant horror storytelling, because although the film isn't a full blown frightfest yet, you're encountering and realising these things alongside them, and when they sense of dread is at its absolute height, that's when Wheatley drops you into the real horror

There's no gradual reveal here. There are details all throughout the film that suggest what's going on, but there's no scene where they figure out what's really happening, and it's never something that the characters 100% understand. They try to leave of course, but they never realise the truth before it happens. It's the plot point equivalent of a jump scare, where something horrifying is spring upon the audience, but instead of being an image, it's a story beat. From here, it's pure horror. The tunnel scene, the brutal slaying of one hitman, the home invasion and the final ritual. The cult never explain their motives or their beliefs, because that stuff doesn't matter. The gradual buildup of dread suddenly blossoms into pure, grizzly horror, where the surviving hitman kills a mysterious figure who turns out to be his wife and son. As imagery goes, this is as bleak and horrifying as it gets, and because it's so sudden and so unfamiliar, it's so scary. Kill List is one of the most disturbing films I've ever seen, and it's a great horror film precisely because, for most of its run, it's not actually a horror film. The slow progression of dread makes the film more uncomfortable but less familiar, until the film ends on a scene that's so unfathomably scary, one that Wheatley never stops to explain, and doesn't need to, because it's awful enough on its own. Kill List is such an unpleasant watch, and I don't know if I could watch it again, but it's a masterfully crafted horror experience. It's scary because it's a slow descent from deep discomfort to unimaginable, almost unexplainable audacity. Why is it so scary? Because it's a carefully tailored descent into a hell so bleak that it can't fully be articulated

"They are bad people. They should suffer"