I wasn’t born yet when George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead was first released in theaters, but I’ve wished many a night that I was old enough to have seen this classic horror film on the big screen. Night of the Living Dead simply changed the film industry forever and showed that horror was taking an uncharted road toward realism, brutality, and true terror. Before Romero’s film, horror often echoed the classic 1940s Universal style or the technicolor Hammer Films. Night of the Living Dead became the torchbearer of what would soon evolve into the splatter and exploitation films of the following decades. The influence this film has had on horror filmmakers is still ongoing.
Zombie films existed long before Night of the Living Dead, but they mostly depicted the traditional Haitian voodoo variety—with zombies as heavily drugged victims forced into slave labor for merciless masters. Romero changed all that in 1968. Made on a shoestring budget even by the standards of the time, Romero and his friends decided to make their own horror movie. The premise was simple: radiation from a returning Venus probe (though later films in the series abandoned that explanation for something more vague) somehow reanimated the recently deceased—though these zombies only had the most basic motor skills. That alone was terrifying enough. But Romero took it further by giving the zombies a new motivation: an unending hunger for the flesh of the living. With this, Night of the Living Dead marked the birth of horror at its most extreme.
The story was heavily influenced by Richard Matheson’s apocalyptic vampire novel I Am Legend, and Herschel Gordon Lewis’ Blood Freaks and Two Thousand Maniacs. Matheson’s novel contributed the idea of an encroaching horror besieging the survivors, while Lewis’ films provided an unflinching portrayal of exploitative violence and gore. Lewis didn’t shy away from gore, but Romero was the first to put a solid story behind the carnage.
The film opens simply enough, with a brother and sister heading to a rural cemetery to visit their dead mother. Right away, it takes on a disturbing tone, as both siblings come under attack from what seems to be a transient. Barbara, played by Judith O’Dea, flees for her life, with her brother Johnny already down. The tension of the opening sequence still makes my pulse pound every time I watch it. Soon, the story introduces the strongest character: Ben, played by Duane Jones in what became his signature performance. But even as strong-willed and level-headed as Ben is, he shares flaws that lead to critical mistakes later. The rest of the cast follows: Harry Cooper (Karl Hardman), his wife Helen (Marilyn Eastman), their injured daughter Karen (Kyra Schon), and the local couple Tom (Keith Wayne) and Judy (Judith Ridley). As the farmhouse becomes surrounded by a growing horde of undead, attracted by their noise, you’d expect the group to band together to survive the night until help arrives. But instead, misunderstandings and bitterness divide them, escalating into open conflict and self-preservation without concern for others.
The infighting and inability to cooperate is Night of the Living Dead’s strongest message—a bleak reflection of human nature in times of upheaval. The characters are fully realized, complex, and rare for horror films of that era. Their realistic portrayal makes their conflicts hit harder. After watching them fall apart, it’s easy to judge them as foolish, but realistically, many others faced with the same pressure might behave just as destructively. Romero’s harsh commentary on humanity’s failure to unite has led to conflict throughout history, and the film points this out in the bluntest, most brutal way possible.
The horror of Romero’s film is intensified by an economic choice. Color film was available in the 1960s but still expensive; only major studios or wealthy independents could afford it. Romero instead used black and white, helped by his background in documentary filmmaking, which made film stock easier to procure. This gave Night of the Living Dead its signature cinéma vérité look—grainy, raw, and immediate, like 8mm home movies of the era. Combined with Romero’s economical editing and minimalist, bass-heavy soundtrack, the film gains a life of its own. Its creeping dread was so tangible, I’m surprised more viewers didn’t walk out when it first played. The horror lingered long after watching.
There really isn’t much to complain about this film. Horror fans were given a movie that went well beyond exploitation. It also opened the door for a new generation of filmmakers who saw that movies could be more than entertainment—they could express social, political, and economic truths of their era. Night of the Living Dead had it all. It told audiences young and old that the era of silly, fantastical horror was over, and a new wave of realistic horror was about to descend. It didn’t shy away from violence. Flesh was ripped from limbs; intestines and organs were shown being handled and devoured. This “Vietnamization” of film violence launched a new era in what filmmakers could depict. But in 1968, this was the kind of violence usually reserved for drive-in exploitation fare—and initial audiences were unprepared. Not just adults, but 11- and 12-year-olds saw this as part of Saturday morning double features. One moment they were watching Flash Gordon or Buck Rogers, the next they faced flesh-eating ghouls and damning social themes bombarding their minds.
1968 is now seen as a turning point in filmmaking history. Night of the Living Dead influenced not just horror directors but filmmakers in all genres. It’s no surprise the film lives in the Smithsonian National Film Registry as a work that reshaped filmmaking art. Decades later, it still shocks first-time viewers and delights devoted fans. Night of the Living Dead didn’t just usher in a new era of horror and cinema; it announced the arrival of a genuine guerrilla auteur, a master of his craft.
