At the end of a romantic movie, the goal is pretty much to be in love with someone, even if you win the booby prize and get Molly Ringwald. The end of an action movie usually sees a character vindicated in some way, having overcome nefarious asshattery. The end of a horror movie is successful for a character if he or she is still alive (and a lot of times they don't even manage that). It's no wonder then that, by the end of a movie, if some characters do survive, we tend to overlook what it implies -- that they're going back to normal life. Given what they just endured, that can be worse than the crap they just survived.
Land of the Dead was George Romero's fourth bite at the undead apple -- even though he had made six or seven dead movies at this point (but some of the others don't count, including official remakes and a few unofficial sequels). Did you ever see Day of the Dead 2? It was about as entertaining as having a stranger eat a bowl of chili, take a dump in your lap and then berate you for it. Point being -- there are a lot of zombie movies, but Romero is the granddaddy of them all, thanks to Night of the Living Dead in 1969.
By the time Land of the Dead rolls around, the whole world is not only overrun with stinky, shambly corpses, it's mostly adapted to them. People live happy, normal lives in their protected cities, and outside, everywhere else, zombies just rot. Or do they?! They do. But apparently they also evolve, because that's what reanimated meat does. It gets smart. This is already going in a bad direction. But on the upside, most of the featured zombies are wearing costumes, and that's delightful. Zombie cheerleaders are rot-dorable.
Smells like teen spirit! And advanced decomposition!
At the ass-end of the film, as our living hero is driving away in his big, ridiculous zombie tank, he catches sight of Big Daddy, a zombie Martin Luther King Jr., leading a zombie horde away from the city. Instead of blowing them to smithereens like a sensible person might do, he stops and appreciates the view (like a crazy person drinking kerosene and masturbating with sand paper might do), and decides that the zombies are merely looking for their place in the world, and isn't that true of all of us? At the end of the day, aren't we the same as zombies?
The answer is no. Because zombies eat people and then people become zombies. This terrible analogy for the American dream (which is the semi-sensical way to interpret Romero's dribble plot point here) fails miserably, because rarely -- if ever -- do people in search of a better life bite others, turning them into the undead. Zombies don't deserve "opportunity." And do not invite one over to play with your child; it's really dumb.
"I have a dream, that one day little zombie children ... will devour the ever-loving shit out of little live children."
If the surviving humans have now reached a point where they need to consider the needs of zombies in their day-to-day survival, they may as well all curl up in plastic bags for the night and hope not to wake up. How are you supposed to scavenge for food if the zombie with the taquitos at 7-Eleven has puppy dog eyes? Is the plan to give out hug therapy? That won't work, if my research into zombie behavior is even slightly accurate.
If you can't kill a zombie -- and, meanwhile, all a zombie wants to do is eat you -- then you're screwed, because there are a lot more of them than there are of the walking food bags. Zombies don't get the luxury of civil rights because -- and this should be in the Constitution if it's not already -- you don't get rights if you're a cannibalistic undead horror. You just don't.
Especially not the right to bear arms.
In 1985, we all fell in love with Jeff Goldblum after he and his mullet acid-puked on a guy's foot and hand for love. Goldblum had been doing what all good scientists do, blowing up apples and baboons until he was sure he wouldn't blow himself up, and then tried out teleportation. But, oh snap! There was a fly in the pod! So he became a fly man. Science, you cray-cray.
Fast forward a couple of years and they make a sequel, starring Eric Stoltz, cinema's answer to a redheaded yawn and a fart half-stifled by your wallet. He plays Goldblum's part-fly son who was raised in a lab by the people who had confiscated all of Goldblum's research into teleportation. And who better to work out the problem than his accelerated-growth-afflicted progeny? No one! Except maybe anyone who is not a genetic monster.
As you'd expect, Stoltz also becomes a fly man, because movie genetics are pretty easy to figure out (man + thing = manthing), and he solves the riddle of teleportation just in time to horribly mutilate the film's villain and then have a happy ending with his girlfriend (who, by the way, is really accepting of the fact that her boyfriend is a 5-year-old half insect).
Hey, it isn't pedophilia if it isn't technically human.
The issue Flyboy and his girl aren't dealing with is the fact that a fully functional teleportation device is now in the hands of an organization that's OK with secretly raising a half-fly child in a lab and keeping their own mutated CEO in a dog cage. This means that the new guy in charge is potentially even more deranged than the previous guy.
The company has the ability to teleport matter, including living matter, from one place to another, but they also have the ability to gene-splice any awful affront to God they want. You want to see what happens when you mix a naked mole-rat with Steven Seagal? You're awful. It's scheduled for next Thursday. Want to see what happens if Liza Minnelli merges with a puffer fish? Probably not, but we'll do it later today.
"She ... she doesn't look all that different."
It's only a matter of time before they replicate the teleportation pods, set up a network and start transporting gross monsters all around the world. Thanks for nothing, Stoltz.
In 1978, John Carpenter aced the "weird guy in a William Shatner mask who kills a lot" genre with the introduction of Michael Myers. Carpenter was going for the idea of a cold, awful, driven machine of a man, a monster in a human shell. He went out of his way to let you know there was no humanity left in Myers. He was evil. How do we know that for sure? Dr. Loomis says so. In fact, it was his diagnosis.
The exact quote from the movie Halloween is this: "I spent eight years trying to reach him, and then another seven trying to keep him locked up because I realized what was living behind that boy's eyes was purely and simply ... evil." Powerful stuff, huh? Now imagine if your son was locked up in Dr. Loomis' hospital in the room next to Myers. How happy are you now with Dr. Loomis' approach to mental health?
This is a doctor who openly admits that he gave up on a 6-year-old boy by the time he was 14 and then spent seven years not treating him, but holding him prisoner. Who else was Dr. Loomis treating over those 15 years?
"Freddy Krueger and Bob Saget were usually in the waiting room."
Odds are that Myers' story became big local news after it happened -- what with his own doctor shooting him six times and all -- and then there's the body count caused by the escaped mental patient under Loomis' care. You could probably find a lawyer who advertises on the asses of strippers who has the wherewithal to build a malpractice suit based on what happened. Basically, anyone treated by Loomis at the time of Myers' escape who wasn't a model of mental health had grounds to sue both Loomis and the hospital because "you're evil and I'm just not going to treat you for seven years" is the kind of shit most HMOs wouldn't be too cool with.
He could have at least given the guy a fistful of Xanax.