I Walked with a Zombie
She's alive... yet dead! She's dead... yet alive!
Year of Release: 1943
Genre: Horror/Romance
Rated: Approved
Running Time: 69 minutes (1:09)
Director: Jacques Tourneur
Cast:
Frances Dee ... Betsy Connell
Tom Conway ... Paul Holland
James Ellison ... Wesley Rand
Edith Barrett ... Mrs. Rand
James Bell ... Dr. Maxwell
Christine Gordon ... Jessica Holland
Theresa Harris ... Alma
Darby Jones ... Carrefour
Summary:
Feel the terror of walking with the living dead! Mysterious deaths and bizarre voodoo rituals draw you into the psychological dread of this classic tale of horror that will make your blood run cold.
On the exotic island of St. Sebastian in the West Indies, there's something frighteningly wrong with Paul Holland's wife. She can walk and breathe, but neither speak nor think. At first, Holland believes his wife has fallen victim to a rare paralysis, and so brings a nurse, Betsy, to his sugar plantation to care for her. But Betsy realizes this is no ordinary illness and suspects a far more sinister truth. Visiting a secret voodoo ritual in the middle of the night, she discovers the shocking reality of the zombie curse!
Review:
I Walked with a Zombie, remindin' us that an iPhone is really just voodoo powder that you hafta recharge.
And speakin' of decreased brain activity, the staff at The Chickawalka Talka are hailin' Billy Hilliard and me as heroes even though we didn't do anything anybody else wouldna done in the face of enviro-terrorism, and we'd appreciate it if everyone would quit askin' us to speak at the high school and tryna get us to kiss their babies; 'specially the ugly babies.
We just happened to be in the right place at the right time, mindin' our own business a couple blocks down from Berenstain Beers, flickin' on our novelty rotator beacons and snappin' pictures of people's terrified reactions for fun. Really coulda been anybody.
It's probably an exaggeration to call it a public service, but the sheriff's office tends to look the other way 'cause they feel it contributes to public safety and because it's real funny. Sometimes the drivers wanna fight, sometimes they'll ditch their rig outright and run, but usually they just wet themselves and roll home at 11mph after pullin' over and realizin' their cranks've been yanked.
That's usually how it goes, anyway.
"Chickawalka Sheriff's Office, what's your emergency?" Magda Unger answered with surprising clarity for somebody with a mouth fulla Fritos.
"Magda, patch me through to Diedra, we've got a situation down at Berenstain Beers," I said.
"Well, hello there! Hadn't heard anything about... erm, excuse me, *from* you for almost a month and I was starting to worry. Anyway, you tell Arvin that if he's rubbin' pool cue chalk on his nards to show off his 'blue balls' again I'll see to it that he ends up on the Sex Offender Registry," she snarled, stuffin' the Frito bag into her desk drawer.
"It ain't *at* Berenstain Beers exactly, see, Billy and I were--" I started explainin'.
"You know, someday you're gonna give someone a coronary pullin' that crap, and if Deputy Dahl hasn't been transferred for excessive use of force by then he'll book you for manslaughter," she warned, plainly aware of exactly where we were and what we were doin'.
"Aww, come ah, Magva, we faw you weow coo," Billy whined.
"Billy Hilliard, does your mother know what you're doing?" she scolded, pleased to be salvaging something out of an otherwise quiet night.
"No ma'am. We juf--" Billy started snivelin' as I yanked the pay phone back.
"For cripes sake, Magda, there's bull trout floppin' all over Elm Street and the drunks're blockin' traffic tryna bait their hooks and... hey! Butch! No dynamite!" I hollered in the direction of Butch Hogan's Jeep Honcho.
"Lieutenant, I'm patching a call through from--" Magda started to say.
"I see it," Diedra replied, comin' around the bend and pullin' up alongside us.
"Please tell me there's an explanation that doesn't end with a psych evaluation when the sheriff reads my report," Diedra groaned, watchin' Opie Boehm stumble and narrowly avoid hittin' his head on the curb tryna put on a set of waders.
"A pickup went by not five minutes ago, we hit the lights, and he floored it. The truck had a bed cover, but it musta been too short, 'cause when he stomped the gas about 15 gallons of water slopped out on the road... along with the fish. They're bull trout too, musta been haulin' them some--" I rambled, my reasoning center apparently takin' a connecting flight en route to the point.
"Gunkamucka!" Billy shrieked.
"Great gallopin' gobs of ghost shit... if that lunatic dumps 'em in there--" I muttered aloud, my mind speculating on the severity of the calamity in progress.
"The state will declare it a protected habitat for an endangered species, and it'll be closed for public angling. I know. Let's go. I'm deputizing both of you until the suspect is in custody," she declared.
"Wha abow..." Billy gestured toward the street where Don Wampler'd just hooked Ferd McGurk by the seat of his pants.
"Alright, I wanna see all your licenses, right now," Diedra boomed, startling the drunks back to something close to reality.
"Oh shit," Cy Skogerboe choked.
"Mine's... um..." Clovis Skidman mumbled, groping for but failing to locate his back pocket.
"Run for it! She can't bust all of us!" Cliff Kraid slurred, turning and immediately crashing into a light pole while the others scattered.
"You think this has anything to do with the decline in tourism?" I asked, watchin' Satchel Gast duck behind a dumpster and return approximately six pints of Pole Cat to the Earth from whence it came.
"Get in!" Diedra instructed before slammin' 'er door and mashin' the gas.
The maniac had a seven-minute head start on us and it's only five miles to Lake Gunkamucka, but we didn't hafta worry about havin' our load of contraband slosh out all over the highway, and so we caught up to 'im just as his brake lights winked out on the shores of the lake.
"This is Lieutenant Duggen of the Chickawalka Sheriff's Department - you're under arrest for the illegal harvest and transport of an endangered species!" she shouted, approaching the driver's door and gesturing for us to take the passenger side.
"And for stickin' that gyrating hula girl on your dashboard! Good grief, man, grow up already," I added, peekin' inside the cab.
"Back off! You take another step and I'll drop the tailgate," the creep sneered; his rig parked on a slope that would create a makeshift Slip 'n Slide from the rush of water once released.
"Nah if I dwop you firf," Billy growled, stepping out from behind the cab.
"Try it, Bigfoot, and you'll never drown another worm in this lake again," the puke threatened, his motive now officially on the record.
"Nobody is going to touch you," Diedra promised, more to back Billy off than anything else.
"Keep 'im talkin', I've got a plan," I whispered, grinning at Diedra from underneath the truck.
"Just tell me what you want and we can sort this out," Diedra called, shaking her head and mouthing the word 'No!' in what would have been my direction had I not already crawled away.
"Fish feel things, ya know. Ever have a hook jerked through your lip and ripped out?!" the dweeb demanded.
"But you'll compromise the lake's ecosystem... these fish are predatory! They'll decimate the native spec..." she tried reasoning.
"YOU are the predators! You have no respect for--" he started to rant, seizing the moment and turning his back on the truck to deliver the speech he'd no doubt prepared for release upon completion of his heinous scheme.
Fortunately, under cover of darkness and booming pontification, I managed to climb up the front tire and drop into the window without opening the door and turnin' on the dome light, and when I saw him turn around I carpe'd the diem and released the parking brake just long enough to bump 'im down the embankment where he landed face-first in somebody's pile of rotting bluegill carcasses.
Hand on the Bible - I never meant to get 'im with the trailer hitch... but at least he won't be contributing anything to the gene pool now.
'Course, you won't get any of that if you read the official police report, which'll probably say somethin' along the lines of "Officer Duggen subdued the suspect with the help of two temporarily deputized citizens," but I spoze the "how," while amusing, isn't all that important, and besides, you could do a lot worse than bein' branded the saviors of Lake Gunkamucka.
Like I was sayin' though - it's all in a night's work, and puttin' our lives on the line in service of Chickawalka County is somethin' we'd gladly do again. Though we do appreciate the permanent V.I.P. seating at Walleye's Topless Dancin' & Bait Shop afforded us in appreciation for savin' the local sporting goods industry, and we would graciously accept any additional freebies from other local merchants and/or allied tradespeople, ya know, should the spirit move them.
By the time Diedra'd dropped us off at the Topaz it was pushin' 11:30, and since we both had work in the mornin', Billy and I decided to call it a night; though not before Apollo and I satisfied our midnight munchies with a coupla deep fried Hot Pockets and settled in for a quick flick about zombies who coulda earned athletic scholarships if somebody hadn't confiscated their brains and forced 'em to train for a career at Buckingham Palace.
I don't wanna give too much away just yet because if I do it'll seem redundant when I give it away later, but it's one of those flicks where ya gotta sit through a lotta tortured family drama where everyone's got a terrible secret that'd force 'em to go live in seclusion someplace real gloomy so they could grow bitter and resentful in peace if anyone found out, and so I feel obligated to light a few beacons of hope for those who recoil from the sight of black and white film and the leisurely pacing that goes along with it. Trust me, it'll be worth it.
First, if your family's shame has been immortalized in song, it may be too late to salvage your public image. Second, voodoo is one of the few religions to never be segregated, though it has long persisted in its current form due to a lack of qualified White practitioners. And third, a runaway bride's a lot easier to catch once rigor mortis sets in.
The movie begins with a nurse (Betsy) takin' a gig as a caregiver on an island in the West Indies, only before she even gets a chance to put de lime in de coconut she awakens to the sound of a woman weeping, and when she goes to investigate she runs into this gal whose brain went out for cigarettes back in 1937 (Jessica) wanderin' the grounds in 'er negligee lookin' like she's just sat through a 24-hour Three's Company marathon. Apparently, the Lady of the manor contracted the Deep Vein Zombosis from an undead mosquito or somethin' and so now the maid (Alma) hasta spoon feed 'er and dress 'er flesh to impress like a minimum wage mortician so the family (Paul, Wesley, and their mother, Mrs. Rand) won't die of shame if she goes sleepwalkin' into town with 'er zombuns showin'. A few days pass and Betsy heads into town where she bumps into Wesley and learns about some of his less flattering exploits by way of a folk song that just happens to make air while he's tryna get enough Coco Locos into his system to charm the scrubs off 'er, but by the time he's able to silence the musician she's already heard too much and ends up havin' to spend the afternoon watchin' Wesley pound whiskey sours instead of goin' to observe an ancient Caribbean ritual where local warlords drive nails through the scrota of nosy American anthropologists.
Because of the family's minority status, Wesley's mama asks Betsy to try persuadin' Paul to ban hooch at the breakfast table so the native population doesn't start to associate Caucasians with alcoholism, but when Paul grants her request the quicker liquor picker upper gets P.O.'d and it starts lookin' like the dirty laundry's about to get hung out on the line until Paul deftly stuffs it back into the hamper. Then Betsy gets a case of the tropical crotch quakes for Paul and decides her best chance to produce a brood of entitled colonial nepo babies with 'im is to cure Jessica of 'er rigor cortex by inducin' a coma and hookin' a Sears Diehard up to 'er temporal lobes but all that does is make the house smell like somebody's dog wandered a little too close to the barbecue pit. Eventually, Alma takes pity on the crackerjack medical operation Betsy's runnin' and explains that she needs a doctor with a degree from Voodoo U, while Mrs. Rand tries to get Betsy to understand that all the domestics're low-IQ individuals who haven't even discovered hair straightener. Thing is, Betsy's tired of changin' the cloth diapers of a gal who only eats food that doesn't require chewing, and so she sneaks Jessica outta the house under cover of day-for-nightfall and leads 'er through the cane fields to this ceremonial hut where the men don't wanna work and just bang on de drum all day while the women perform interpretive dance rituals depicting their struggles against the tyranny of the underwire brassiere.
It's the classic switcheroo though, 'cause when Betsy gets in to see the attending witch doctor she finds Mrs. Rand workin' the overnight shift where she spends most of 'er free time tryna spread the good word about her lord and savior penicillin in hopes of building trust among the native peoples so they'll live long enough to justify the investment Maxwell House and Aunt Jemima have made in their community. 'Cept while they're in the clinic jawin', the high priest starts gettin' jittery about the way Jessica's lookin' at absolutely nothin' and slices 'er arm with his ceremonial broadsword and discovers she's got no Pennzoil in the crankcase, at which time nobody cares where the white women at so long as it ain't there. 'Course now the constable's all P.O.'d 'cause the natives won't stop playin' Ringo's drum solo from The End at all hours of the night in a bid to coax Jessica back so they can get 'er head screwed back on straight, and when night falls the following day the repossessors take matters into their cold dead hands and send this bug-eyed beanpole zombie over to Chateau Necro since there definitely won't be anybody over there who has a problem with a shirtless undead Antillean carryin' off a comatose white woman. Might be a little early to call it quits, but a lot of what's left is family drama gettin' in the way of the voodoo zombie-rama, and if ya ignore that, there's really only about five minutes of flick left. But definitely stick around for the fitting, if somewhat bizarre ending that no doubt inspired Don Barton when he made his opus - The Blood Waters of Dr. Z.
Alrighty, well, as any big mouth genre know-it-all'll tell ya, zombies (as defined by the immortal George Romero) wouldn't come about until the late '50s (Plan 9 from Outer Space, Invisible Invaders) and early '60s (Carnival of Souls), and historically, all zombie movies produced prior to that period featured the classic voodoo zombie that'd usually been returned to life by a guy with delusions of grandeur and a concoction consisting of secret herbs and spices. I Walked with a Zombie doesn't delve too deeply into the origins of the undead, and is alleged to be loosely modeled after the novel Jane Eyre... which requires a squint that to date has only been mastered by French Stewart while under the influence of Acapulco Gold. Regardless, it was only the second decent zombie film to be produced in an era dominated by the Universal classic monsters, and, coincidentally, was also the second film produced by the only man consistently putting out quality genre flicks that could hold a candle to Universal's offerings - Mr. Val Lewton.
Val was placed in charge of RKO's horror division in 1942, scoring his first hit with Cat People that same year. And while he tends to receive more credit than is probably warranted (he was only the producer, after all), the fact that he was able to consistently produce such high-quality films with RKO's limited resources underscores an eye for good storytelling and acting talent. The fact that his titles are so fondly remembered 80 years after their original theatrical runs speaks volumes about both his acumen and instincts, particularly because all his films (as a consequence of RKO's budgetary restrictions) are remembered not for their visual thrills but for the atmosphere they created and the mantra that, sometimes, what you don't see is scarier than what you do. That approach to filmmaking has been on life support for roughly 60 years as a result of increased offerings and reduced attention spans, and while I don't count myself among those who consider these types of films high art, there's no escaping his ability to bring visuals and sound together to produce a finished product much greater than the sum of its parts while rarely exceeding an hour and a quarter running time.
Within three years he had proven such a reliable draw for RKO that the studio increased his typical allowance to the point where he was able to bring in such established stars as Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi, and he appeared to be on an upward trajectory until a heart attack took his life in 1951 at the age of only 47. Really makes you wonder whether the horror genre mighta been able to hold its own a bit more throughout the '50s had he still been around, or, whether he woulda jumped onto the science fiction bandwagon, but either way, genre filmmaking lost a giant when Val passed away, and while there were a few hits here and there throughout the decade, horror would enter a lull until Hammer eventually picked up the torch and lit the path forward.
Anyway, let's yank the footwear off this zombie and see how surefooted he is negotiatin' a future filled with the road hazards of modern expectations.
The plot manages to thread the needle in its bid to present a zombie mystery while still squeezing in the aforementioned "Jane Eyre falls for tortured employer" subplot for those theater-goers who might otherwise have been called onto the carpet at work to explain themselves had they been seen sitting through something so scandalous as a genre film.
Because it's a product of the 1940s, it could be considered somewhat progressive for its decision to cast Black actors (rather than smearing boot polish on the faces of Caucasians) and for the civility the two races exhibit towards one another, and while it does lean into the fallacy of native intellectual inferiority as a plot point, some of the self-assured sense of superiority does circle back around to bite the Caucasians on the ass when everything they've assumed to be nothing more than the superstitions of a backwards people prove true.
Essentially, what we've got here is a love triangle snuffed out through supernatural means that somehow works both as a horror story and a romance due to the ambiguity of how Jessica came to be in her zombified state. It's implied that the head voodoo dude (or Voodude, if you prefer) placed a curse on her to punish her for her marital indiscretions with Wesley, but if that's all there is to it one has to assume he's either the island's biggest busy body, or that someone put him up to it, and if that's the case, who? Mrs. Rand blames herself, but only because she was aware of what was going on and believed Jessica got what she deserved despite having no direct involvement. So in a sense, that ambiguity is critical, because if Paul was responsible for the curse, the audience is no longer keen on the idea of Betsy hookin' up with him, ya know? It's not exactly a plot hole, but it does raise a question that, depending on the answer, could cause the entire romance to collapse in on itself, and so, amusingly, the story only survives scrutiny for having never taken the time to really explain itself.
The acting is solid despite Frances Dee shouldering most of the load as a consequence of being surrounded by zombies and an emotionally damaged co-star (Tom Conway) condemned to maintain the same expression so as to conceal any evidence of latent humanity. James Ellison is also decent as the shameless weasel of a brother who seems to intimate that the corpse bride's condition is attributable to something Conway has done without ever coming right out and saying it; Theresa Harris is likable as the upbeat housemaid who knows the score but only offers advice on the care and feeding of zombies once solicited; and Darby Jones cranks the creep factor up to eleven in his non-speaking role as the featured ghoul whose blank, haunting visage remains forever burnt into the mind of the viewer long after the credits roll. No real standout performances, but nor are there any weak links.
Here's who matters and why: James Ellison (The Undying Monster), Tom Conway (The Seventh Victim, Cat People 1942, Bride of the Gorilla, 12 to the Moon, The Atomic Submarine, Voodoo Woman, The She-Creature), James Bell (Back from the Dead, The Leopard Man, The Monkey's Paw 1933), Theresa Harris (Cat People 1942), Sir Lancelot (The Unknown Terror, Zombies on Broadway, The Curse of the Cat People), Darby Jones (Zombies on Broadway, King of the Zombies), Jeni Le Gon (Bones), Vivian Dandridge (King Kong 1933), Alan Edmiston (The Picture of Dorian Gray), Norman Mayes (Zombies on Broadway), Martin Wilkins (Voodoo Woman, The Vampire's Ghost, Zombies on Broadway).
And the underachievers: Frances Dee (Sally in Of Human Bondage, Meg March in Little Women 1933), Tom Conway (the Narrator in Peter Pan 1953), Edith Barrett (Mr. Fairfax in Jane Eyre 1943), James Bell (The Constable in The Spiral Staircase, Mr. Burger in The Glenn Miller Story, Father Logan in Dead Reckoning), Theresa Harris (Chico in Baby Face).
The special effects are virtually non-existent as was common in genre films of the era, with the only examples coming in the forms of a comet streaking across the sky in the midst of a night scene with excessive lighting, and some rear projection that works reasonably well in conjunction with simulated ocean waves that sway the camera, piped in wind effects, and an off screen fan. Nothing to get excited about, but also not atypical of the time, even before factoring in Lewton's propensity for subtlety and the unseen.
The shooting locations are kept to a minimum for budgetary reasons (including gas rationing that was in effect as World War II raged), though the opening shot of Frances Dee and Darby Jones walking along the coast is both excellent and a rare example of black and white beach photography enhancing the mood rather than diminishing it. The bulk of the film was shot on sets at RKO Studios and features an open air plantation style home with slat windows that put over the tropical temperatures while standing apart as a symbol of colonial America placed against the backdrop of Caribbean palms. Flicks with exotic locales like this one always come with a complimentary slice of cheese, as the various potted plants and small, recycled patches of vegetation shot with tight camera angles are often apparent, but the production design and J. Roy Hunt's fine cinematography (particularly the sequence in the cane field filmed from below on a rolling dolly) make the most of the limited resources when it matters most. There's not a lot of variety, but they were able to set the scene and produce more atmosphere than should be possible, as was Lewton's specialty.
The soundtrack is, for its age, very good. It is, in my opinion, rare for any film of this era to produce a score that feels tailor-made for the movie it is to enhance (King Kong being the best example), and while I'm not suggesting it hits every scene perfectly, it does a better job than most at accentuating the desired mood. The opening score with its somber strings, playful woodwinds, and dreamlike harp medley produce an apprehensive, yet hopeful piece that sets the tone for what awaits, and while there are the typical sections that devolve into cheesily cheerful background noise that exist solely for necessity's sake, it's also important to point out the good judgment on display in determining when to kill the music. The sound editor has a firm grasp on when to use music and when to cut it in favor of a soft, dead wind that perfectly projects the sense of dread Frances Dee is experiencing as she realizes she's walking alone with a zombie in uncharted territory as she seeks out a man alleged to possess the power of reanimating the dead, and that aura of "what have I gotten myself into?" makes that sequence one of the best of the decade even before Darby Jones steps into view. Again, not a catchy score, but one that synergizes with the visuals and amplifies the mood in a way that's critical for a film that lives or dies by its atmosphere.
Overall, I Walked with a Zombie is a bit creaky and shows its age, but touts strong production values in every area and is a masterclass in how to effectively present a horror story by building atmosphere over time rather than resorting to jump scares or visual thrills. I likely lack the sophistication to truly appreciate the flick on the level it deserves because I'm a simple man who prefers the demon bursting from the flesh of those it has possessed, but even I can't help but be somewhat swayed by Lewton's commitment to his method, and at 69 minutes running time, I Walked with a Zombie is an excellent jumping off point for anyone who wants to dive into classic genre films, but that may be skeptical of their entertainment value. Essential viewing for fans of Horror's golden age; consider putting it into your Halloween rotation if you haven't gotten around to it.
Rating: 68%