Remembering George A. Romero by Tom Fallows
George Romero’s impact on cinema has been assured. He is the “father of the living dead,” the “king of zombies,” the man who along with a bunch of friends in Pittsburgh created a movie monster that will haunt our collective consciousness forevermore. His zombies are as eternal as Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. That he did this on the fringes of the industry is even more remarkable. Based in Pittsburgh, and later Toronto, Romero showed generation after generation of independent filmmakers that they didn’t need Hollywood, just a heap of passion, determination and a total commitment to tell their own stories on their own terms. Night of the Living Dead set the example, and cinema was never the same again. But for many of us, George was more than just a game-changing filmmaker. He was our hero.
I have been writing about George Romero for over 15 years now, from undergraduate student to PhD researcher, with a co-authored Romero biography somewhere in between, the latter of which reads like a love letter. During this period, our paths crossed once or twice, and he was always kind and patient as I gazed up at him doe-eyed and paralyzed with adoration – made stupid and silent by my hero worship. The last time we met was in March 2016 at the Lucca Film Festival in Italy, where he was being honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award. He agreed to answer some questions for my research and the first thing that struck me was his embarrassment that someone would really base an entire PhD thesis around his films. It was sort of adorable. He seemed genuinely amazed at his own success and the impact of his work. It bemused him somehow – “Me? Really?” Yes, George. You.
We met for drinks at his hotel that evening and both George and his wife Suzanne immediately treated me like an old friend or family member. I later discovered this type of kindness was common for him. Meanwhile I did my best not to fan-boy out or break down crying. He repeatedly reminded me that he “didn’t want to be special” and he was more comfortable when the subject of his movies was put to bed and we turned to more general conversation. I was only too happy to indulge him and we spent several hours chatting about everything and nothing – particularly about his love of classic movies, sports and travel. He laughed constantly, enjoyed to gossip, and did numerous impressions of old movie stars that just killed me (his Karloff was amazing!). I sensed a man who deeply loved life and the opportunities his career had afforded him. He may not have understood how he got to be so iconic, but he was damn well going to enjoy it. Later, when reflecting on his career he smiled and said, “I wouldn’t have changed a single thing.” That more than anything made me happy.
As we left the hotel bar that evening and said our goodbyes, Suzanne hugged me and said, “you’re going to remember this for this rest of your life.” I laughed and struggled to play it cool. But she was right. Though I didn’t know it then, that evening had been a final gift from my hero, in a filmmaking career that had been nothing but gifts. He gave me so much, and took nothing in return. From the tributes that have been pouring in since his tragic passing on Sunday, it seems that he had this effect on everyone – collaborators, friends, colleagues, fans and writers like me. His impact on cinema has been assured, but this is only half the reason that his passing has broken our hearts. We were awed by the filmmaker, but we loved the man.
Thank you so much, George.
– Tom Fallows
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