Zombies, Vivisection, and Bestiality

In the movies, when a formerly dead person comes back as a zombie, they may look like the deceased individual, but, as some helpful character is likely to point out to the deceased’s loved ones, it is no longer “really them,” but something else, something menacing and strange: a dead body that’s undergone revivification via supernatural or pseudo-scientific processes and can now be regarded as an indexical sign that still invokes the subject that once occupied it—while the subject itself has been irrevocably lost. As a scientist declares on a TV talk show in Dawn of the Dead (1978), George A. Romero’s sequel to his goundbreaking Night of the Living Dead (1968): “We must not be lulled by the concept that these are our family members or our friends… they are not. … They will not respond to such emotions. … They must be destroyed on sight!”

If a ghost is a disembodied spirit, a zombie, by contrast, is a pure “body” creature, an empty shell whose spirit has departed—and furthermore, a walking manifestation of the basic human fear of being reduced to such base corporeality without the prospect of cerebral transcendence. As Ernest Becker writes, the mind-body dualism constitutes an existential dilemma for humankind: not only do we feel guilt over irrepressible “bodily processes and urges,” we also deplore “the constraint of the basic animal condition, the incomprehensible mystery of the body and the world.”[1]

The term “animal condition” is quite telling, since the “othering” of zombies as animated bodies without corresponding minds, as well as human characters’ reluctance to regard them as fellow sentient beings, also clearly link them to animals. In Dawn of the Dead, referring to the zombies’ limited ability to manipulate their environment, the same scientist quoted above reminds us that “even animals will adopt the basic use of tools in this manner.” The animal analogy is most apparent in the third installment in Romero’s Living Dead series, Day of the Dead (1985). Day in effect proposes that, rather than thinking of them as expired human beings, zombies can be thought of as belonging to a different species altogether, with its own biology and behavioral codes to be studied and unraveled. In the film, Dr. Logan (Richard Liberty), nicknamed “Dr. Frankenstein” by the soldiers among whom he’s taken residence in a subterranean military compound, performs grotesque experiments on captured living dead “specimens,” with the objective of demonstrating that they can be “domesticated, conditioned to behave,” thus providing surviving humans with an alternative way of combating the zombie plague. As Logan asserts, reinstilling the zombies with “the bare beginning of social behavior, civil behavior” by means of a system of reward and punishment will return to them a portion of their lost humanity. Logan’s methods are evocative of animal-experimentation—zombies show rudimentary signs of fear and anger, fight-or-flight responses—and there are even implications of zombie-abuse, seemingly inviting a debate as to whether or not mistreatment of these “specimens” is ethically defensible. In a way, the more animalistic our view of zombies becomes, the more sympathetic or at least morally neutral they appear—since brute beasts can’t really be held responsible for their aggressive behavior, the fact that they might turn on or try and attack and prey on the living no longer seems particularly shocking or mysterious; after all, this is how animals ostensibly behave.

And speaking of sympathy for zombies, here’s how advice columnist Dan Savage recently responded to an inquiry as to whether sexual relations between humans and zombies could ever be morally permissible:

“As for the morality of the situation, fucking zombies is still necrophilia, technically speaking, but practically speaking, it comes closer to bestiality. A human being who has been zombified is nothing but an animal, hungry for brains, incapable of thought, much less consent. We can kill animals for their flesh, but we mustn't fuck them, HIZZIE; we can kill zombies for wanting our flesh, but likewise we mustn't fuck them.”[2]

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[1] Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death (New York: The Free Press, 1973), 35.

[2] Dan Savage, “Feeding Time”, Savage Love, October 15, 2009 (http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/SavageLove?oid=2472796).

Julie and Julia

Julie and Julia (Nora Ephron, 2009) includes a sequence—as featured in the trailer—in which Julie (Amy Adams) must boil a potful of live lobsters as part of her mission to cook her way through all 536 recipes in her idol Julia Child’s book Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Julie has qualms about this from the seafood shop all the way home; we see her gulping apprehensively while eyeing the shifting bag of live lobsters in the back seat. She even writes about her ethical dilemma in the blog she has been using to post on her progress with the French Cooking project to an increasing number of avid followers.

At home, in the kitchen, her husband Eric (Chris Messina) playfully dances around her singing “lobster killer” in a high-pitched voice (while the Talking Heads’ “Psychokiller” is heard in the background). Julie contemplates following Julia’s advice to stab the lobsters in the head prior to boiling, but just can’t get herself to do it. Finally she takes heart, scoops up the three crustaceans, dumps them in the bubbling pot one by one, then slams down the lid. A smile slowly spreads across her face when she realizes she’s done it… but then one of the lobsters in his death throws manages to pop up the lid—and Julie flees the room, shrieking hysterically. Luckily, Eric is there to take over, deftly reassembling the lobster death spa as he mutters, “Sorry boys—there’s a new sheriff in town.”

The scene is played for laughs—not exactly an original concept; after all, Woody Allen’s Annie Hall (1977) famously features a comedic live-lobster-boiling scene. Only here, the protagonist couple’s mutual incompetence in accomplishing the feat is arguably something that brings them closer together. Ephron’s film is a little more on the reactionary side, presenting Julie’s momentary second thoughts as a sign of feminine weakness.

More than that, Eric’s actions are presented as evidence of his “saintliness” in contrast to Julie’s “bitchiness” and general self-involvement. (Coincidentally, we find out in a conversation between Julie and her closest female friend [Mary Lynn Rajskub] that essentially all women are bitches—except for Julia Child. And unlike Julia, Julie becomes worthy of her saintly husband only after realizing the extent of her shortcomings and publicly apologizing for them in her blog.) Overcoming her foolish squeamishness is something Julie must achieve in order to pave the way to self-actualization; Eric understands this even before she herself does. And his coming to her rescue in such a manly way thus fulfills a part of her mission that would otherwise be left unfulfilled.

But perhaps the most important thing to take home from the lobster-boiling sequence—in a film praised by moviegoers in large part for its tantalizing food pornography—is that culinary professionalism and foodie interests trump compassion 100% of the time. The ensuing feast Julie prepares for her friends is after all one of her greatest gastronomic accomplishments, and once everyone is sitting at the table, moaning over the deliciousness of the lobster carcasses, all is once again right with the world.