There are few things that myself and my lady can agree with when it comes to films. A few notable exceptions are The Dark Crystal, Labyrinth, Ghostbusters and Shaun of the Dead, but everything else may well get the foul language flowing at our place. Things she tends to prefer don't have enough spaceships, explosions or zombies in them for me, while the stuff I like, much of the time, has too much of the above for her tastes. Such is life.
George A. Romero's masterpiece of tension and blue-faced zombies is some perfect common ground, and our most recent viewing last night gave rise to a great conversation. The production values of Dawn of the Dead may well have dated, but the film is still a visceral and addictive experience.
It's not as gory as many people seem to think it is, and that's part of its strength, the film is much more of an exercise in tension than a splatter-fest, and where it differs from many lesser films is that you actually feel some affinity with the characters and you care when they're in danger.
As a bottle of cava was demolished and snacks were consumed, we became ever more slurred in our own little commentary, but valid points were still made. For one thing, anyone that has ever worked in a shopping centre, the film fulfils those fantasies about what you'd do if you had the place to yourself. I mean, why not? The world's gone to hell, you might as well run riot, gorge yourself and get some new threads before the zombies chew your guts out.
We also discussed the various subtexts, either implied or not, and generally spent ninety minutes having a damn fine time in a pleasantly drunken manner. So I guess the moral of the story is: Zombie movies are the key to domestic bliss.