I can say, without the slightest shred of hyperbole, that I
would not be the man I am today had it not been for George Romero. It would be the farthest thing possible from
an exaggeration to say that, despite the fact that I never met the man, or was
ever even in the same room as him, his impact on my life is equal to, if not
greater than, anyone who has ever walked the planet. The death of an artist can be a very bizarre
and complex phenomenon. Those who mourn
are often looked upon with scorn for placing so much emphasis on the passing of a
public figure that, in the strictest terms, wasn’t a physical part of their
world. But for those whose lives were
deeply touched by that person’s art, it can feel like the loss of a family
member. A beloved friend. A mentor.
A hero. Even a sort of spiritual
figure. That is the power that lies in
the essence of art. Art changes
lives. And I can honestly say that I
have never felt an artist’s passing as intensely as I feel this one because George
Romero’s art, in a very real and literal sense, profoundly altered the course
of my life. There would never have been
a Son of Celluloid without him. More
importantly however, had it not been for one fateful viewing of Night of the
Living Dead, I’m not even sure who Nathan Hamilton would be today.
In 1992, I was a very mixed up kid. As the son of a Southern Baptist minister and
a member of a traveling evangelistic family unit as a child, I had been fully
indoctrinated. Some would call it
brainwashing. From birth I was being
groomed to carry on the family business.
But there was a side of me that I didn’t understand. I had always found myself attracted to the
darkness. While others were preaching
about Jesus healing lepers, I was enamored with the seven headed apocalyptic
beasts in Revelations. While my father
talked about the resurrection from the pulpit, I was rendering the best
gory-as-hell depictions of crucifixions my five year old art skills would allow
on the back of church bulletins. More
than one concerned Sunday School teacher called my folks in for a conference
when, upon being tasked with drawing a picture from a bible story, I turned in
an image of David holding Goliath’s dripping, severed head aloft.
I was just doing what came natural to me, but it was always
treated as some sort of derangement that needed to be fixed. I was sick.
These urges were of the devil.
Why are you like this? Why can’t
you be normal? Do you think this
glorifies the Lord? What’s the matter
with you? When your entire world view is
based on sin and salvation, if you are told enough times by those you believe
to be spiritual leaders that there is something deeply wrong with you, you
start to believe it yourself. If an
impressionable child is prayed over to “take this wickedness from him” enough
times, it will inevitably get inside their head. And this is where I found myself in early
October of 1992; with a deep seeded inner turmoil. I was torn between my honest proclivity
towards the macabre and the fear that these urges very well may be the work of
infernal powers after all. I didn’t know
what to think.
Then came a night that, 25 years later, I still remember as
vividly as a snapshot. On my little
black and white TV in my room, I discovered that some now long defunct and
forgotten UHF station was about to show a movie called Night of the Living
Dead. I had heard the name somewhere
before, and I knew I had to see it. That
night, basking in the glorious monochrome glow, I saw my first horror
movie. I wasn’t afraid. I was mesmerized. As the movie progressed, I slowly came to the
realization that if this kind of entertainment existed, then there were more
people out there like me. Lots more. Enough that they made movies just for
them. I was reveling in the things that
fed my soul, the very things I had been taught to hate and fear, and nothing
bad was happening. I felt no satanic
command to kill people. My soul wasn’t
being dragged to the abyss. In fact, I
was the happiest I had ever been.
Watching that movie felt… it felt like home.
When it ended, I laid
down in bed and thought long and hard.
Everything I had ever been taught said that what I had just done was
wrong. But everything within me had
never felt so right. It was in that
moment that I decided that I no longer wanted to be what I was being made
into. I wanted to be who I actually
was. As I drifted off to sleep, that
inner turmoil was gone. In its place, I
felt truly at peace for the first time I could remember. The person that I would eventually grow into
was born in that moment. That’s why I
call myself the Son of Celluloid.
Because I feel like that singular movie experience gave birth to the
real me. And although I now know that it
takes a small army to make a film happen, in my 12 year old mind that realization,
that conversion, was thanks to one man; the director. George A Romero. I guess, in a way, you could call him the
Father of Celluloid.
About a year later, the first horror movie I ever purchased
was, of course, Night of the Living Dead.
That beat to hell VHS still sits in my collection as the cornerstone of
the horror obsession at the core of my being.
I couldn’t begin to count how many times I’ve watched it. For years, I watched it as I went to sleep
nearly every night. The first thing I’ve
done on my last 20 or so Halloweens is put that movie on. When I went to film school, about 75% of my
projects and essays were about his body of work (the other quarter were about
Argento). I always hoped, one day, that
I would get to meet the man who changed my life and thank him. When I started getting involved with the Days
of the Dead conventions, I always hoped he would be there one year. Sadly, our paths never crossed. He was supposed to be the keynote guest in
Indianapolis a couple of weeks ago. I
had that old VHS tape ready for him to sign.
I was finally going to meet the man who had meant more to me than he
possibly could have ever known. Truth be
told, I probably would have blathered like an idiot or just frozen in the face
of a man who, in my mind, had been built up to damn near Godlike status. It was not to be, however. He cancelled due to health reasons. I was crushed, but held the hope that he
would be healthy again when the next con came around. Sadly, there will never be a next time.
This may have all sounded very maudlin and melodramatic to
some of you, but my words are the only tribute I have for a man who, in a way
that cannot be overstated, set me free.
It’s strange knowing that I now live in a world where the godfather of independent
horror no longer walks among us. I’m
sure he knew his stature in the horror world.
I’m sure he’s been told countless times by countless filmmakers that he
was their inspiration. I’m sure he knew
that, by creating the modern zombie, he changed the landscape of the genre
forever. I’m sure untold numbers of fans
have made him uncomfortable professing their admiration for him just like I
probably would have. But I wonder if he
knew just how far his influence transcended horror entertainment and touched
the very hearts, minds, and lives of his fans and, in cases like mine, was a
guiding force in who they would come to be.
My fondest hope is that he somehow did.
So now here I sit, watching Night of the Living Dead for the
only god knows how many hundredth time.
In the past, I have watched this movie and thrilled. I have watched this movie and marveled. I have watched this movie and laughed. I have watched this movie and been
comforted. I have watched this movie and
learned. I have watched this movie and
adored every second of entertainment it has given me. But tonight, for the very first time, I watch
this movie and weep. Thank you, George. Not just for what you did, but for what you
meant.
