There's been a vogue for the past few years for often-as-not ironic zombie-related films, as well as other media incarnations of the flesh- eating resurrected dead. "Fido" is a film that's either an attempt to cash in on that, simply a manifestation of it, or both -- and it falls squarely into the category of ironic zombies. The joke here is that we get to see the walking dead in the contrasting context of a broadly stereotyped, squeaky-clean, alternate-history (we are in the wake of a great Zombie War, and the creatures are now being domesticated as slaves) version of a 1950s suburb.
It's a moderately funny concept on its own, and enough perhaps for a five-minute comedy sketch, but it can't hold up a feature-film on its own. The joke that rotting corpses for servants are incongruous with this idealized version of a small town is repeated over and over again, and loses all effectiveness. The soundtrack relentlessly plays sunny tunes while zombies cannibalize bystanders. The word "zombie" is constantly inserted into an otherwise familiarly homey line for a cheap attempt at a laugh.
The very broadness and artificiality of the representation of "the nineteen fifties" here can't help but irritate me. It is so stylized, in it evidently "Pleasantville-"inspired way, that it is more apparent in waving markers of its 1950s-ness around than actually bearing any resemblance to anything that might have happened between 1950 and 1959. There is something obnoxiously sneering about it, as if the film is bragging emptily and thoughtlessly about how more open, down-to-Earth, and superior the 2000s are.
Because the characters are such broad representations of pop-culture 1950s "types," it's difficult to develop much emotional investment in them. Each has a few character traits thrown at him or her -- Helen is obsessed with appearances, and Bill loves golf and his haunted by having had to kill his father -- but they remain quite two-dimensional. Performances within the constraints of this bad writing are fine. The best is Billy Connolly as Fido the zombie, who in the tradition of Boris Karloff in "Frankenstein" actually imparts character and sympathy to a lumbering green monster who cannot speak.
There are little bits of unsubtle allegory thrown around -- to commodity fetishism, racism, classism, war paranoia, et cetera, but none of it really works on a comprehensive level, and the filmmakers don;t really stick with anything.
Unfortunately, this film doesn't really get past sticking with the flimsy joke of "Look! Zombies in 'Leave it to Beaver!'" for a good hour- and-a-half.
It's a moderately funny concept on its own, and enough perhaps for a five-minute comedy sketch, but it can't hold up a feature-film on its own. The joke that rotting corpses for servants are incongruous with this idealized version of a small town is repeated over and over again, and loses all effectiveness. The soundtrack relentlessly plays sunny tunes while zombies cannibalize bystanders. The word "zombie" is constantly inserted into an otherwise familiarly homey line for a cheap attempt at a laugh.
The very broadness and artificiality of the representation of "the nineteen fifties" here can't help but irritate me. It is so stylized, in it evidently "Pleasantville-"inspired way, that it is more apparent in waving markers of its 1950s-ness around than actually bearing any resemblance to anything that might have happened between 1950 and 1959. There is something obnoxiously sneering about it, as if the film is bragging emptily and thoughtlessly about how more open, down-to-Earth, and superior the 2000s are.
Because the characters are such broad representations of pop-culture 1950s "types," it's difficult to develop much emotional investment in them. Each has a few character traits thrown at him or her -- Helen is obsessed with appearances, and Bill loves golf and his haunted by having had to kill his father -- but they remain quite two-dimensional. Performances within the constraints of this bad writing are fine. The best is Billy Connolly as Fido the zombie, who in the tradition of Boris Karloff in "Frankenstein" actually imparts character and sympathy to a lumbering green monster who cannot speak.
There are little bits of unsubtle allegory thrown around -- to commodity fetishism, racism, classism, war paranoia, et cetera, but none of it really works on a comprehensive level, and the filmmakers don;t really stick with anything.
Unfortunately, this film doesn't really get past sticking with the flimsy joke of "Look! Zombies in 'Leave it to Beaver!'" for a good hour- and-a-half.