In the dim haze of a forgotten cemetery, a band of arrogant actors learns that mocking the dead invites apocalypse—ushering in an era of shambling horror that still chills spines today.
Long before the glossy undead hordes of modern cinema, a scrappy independent film captured the raw terror of reanimated corpses with biting satire and relentless tension. Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things (1972) stands as a cornerstone of early zombie lore, blending theatrical hubris with visceral frights in a way that feels both primitive and profoundly unsettling.
- The film’s unique premise follows a self-absorbed theatre troupe desecrating graves on a remote island, only for their voodoo prank to summon an unstoppable zombie plague.
- Its low-budget ingenuity shines through practical effects, location shooting, and a meta-commentary on performance and consequence that elevates it beyond mere gore.
- Enduring as a drive-in cult favourite, it influenced generations of horror filmmakers while cementing director Bob Clark’s reputation for genre innovation.
Unholy Laughter Turns to Screams: The Cult Birth of Zombie Chaos
Shot on a shoestring budget over six frantic days in 1971, Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things emerged from the fertile ground of post-Night of the Living Dead horror experimentation. Director Bob Clark assembled a cast largely composed of University of Miami drama students, transforming a derelict cemetery on Virginia Key into a nightmarish playground. The story centres on Alan, the bombastic leader of a counterculture theatre group called Headstone Circus, who ferries his ensemble to a secluded island graveyard for a midnight ritual of grave-robbing and mock necromancy. What begins as a lark in black robes and greasepaint spirals into genuine apocalypse when their chant—”Children shouldn’t play with dead things!”—appears to awaken the mouldering inhabitants.
The screenplay, penned by Clark and star Alan Ormsby, masterfully toys with audience expectations. Early scenes brim with irreverent comedy as the actors pose corpses in lewd tableaux, scoffing at taboos. This setup skewers the pretensions of experimental theatre, with Alan’s megalomaniacal director barking orders like a deranged ringmaster. Yet the pivot to horror arrives with surgical precision: a distant groan, a twitching hand piercing soil, and suddenly the film sheds its skin to reveal primal dread. Clark’s camera lingers on the zombies’ grotesque decay—realistic wounds achieved through Ormsby’s homemade makeup—making every shambling advance feel invasively personal.
One pivotal sequence unfolds in the caretaker’s shack, where survivors barricade against the encroaching horde. Here, the film’s sound design elevates the terror; guttural moans mix with splintering wood and panicked breaths, all captured on location for authenticity. Clark draws from George A. Romero’s blueprint but infuses his own flair: the zombies move with deliberate, puppet-like jerks, emphasising their violation of natural order. This choreography not only conserved budget but amplified unease, turning slow pursuit into psychological torment.
Desecration as Catalyst: The Ritual That Doomed Them All
At its core, the film dissects the perils of hubris through its resurrection rite. The troupe’s performance art—complete with a faux Book of the Dead and chanted incantations—mirrors real-world occult fascinations of the era, from Aleister Crowley revivals to Hammer Films’ satanic chic. Alan’s glee in orchestrating the desecration blinds him to warnings scrawled on headstones, foreshadowing doom with poetic irony. Ormsby imbues the role with charismatic menace, his wide grin masking a void of empathy that makes his inevitable downfall cathartic.
Production anecdotes reveal the chaos mirroring the fiction: cast members genuinely spooked by night shoots amid real graves, with Clark pushing for natural reactions. Budget constraints forced ingenuity; zombies were costumed in tattered rags sourced from thrift stores, their pallor from flour and coffee grounds. This resourcefulness birthed visuals that aged into gritty charm, contrasting the polished zombies of later decades. The island’s isolation amplified claustrophobia, trapping viewers alongside characters in a pressure cooker of regret.
Critics often overlook how the film subverts zombie tropes even in its infancy. Unlike Romero’s social allegories, Clark leans into supernatural causation—a voodoo curse via a mysterious book—blending Caribbean folklore with American goth. This hybridity reflects 1970s genre mash-ups, paving roads for films like The Beyond. The zombies’ single-minded pursuit of the living, devouring without mercy, establishes insatiable hunger as undead shorthand, echoed in countless successors.
Meta Mayhem: Theatre Troupe Meets True Horror
The ensemble’s dynamics provide fertile ground for character-driven tension. Supporting players like Valerie Mammano as the flirtatious Sonya and Jeff Gilen as the squeamish Chuck embody archetypes ripe for slaughter, their petty squabbles humanising the carnage. Dialogues crackle with 1970s slang—”far out, man”—grounding the surreal in era-specific authenticity. Clark’s editing rhythmically intercuts pranks with encroaching dusk, building dread organically.
A standout set piece sees the group fleeing through tangled mangroves, zombies bursting from underfoot like roots come alive. Practical stunts, including buried actors erupting upward, deliver shocks sans CGI, their raw physicality imprinting on collective memory. Soundtrack minimalism—sparse organ drones and wind howls—lets silence weaponise anticipation, a technique Clark honed from European horror imports.
Cultural context enriches appreciation: released amid Vietnam’s shadow and counterculture fracture, the film metaphorises reckless youth awakening societal rot. Drive-in circuits embraced it as double-bill fodder with Last House on the Left, its grindhouse vibe cementing midnight movie status. Home video revival via Something Weird Video in the 1990s introduced it to VHS collectors, who prized its unpolished edge.
Legacy of the Living Dead: Ripples Through Horror History
Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things seeded zombie cinema’s proliferation. Its island siege influenced Zombi 2‘s tropical terrors, while the prank-gone-wrong motif recurs in Return of the Living Dead. Clark’s venture capital—scraped from porn profits—highlighted indie viability, inspiring mavericks like Tobe Hooper. Fan restorations preserve its 16mm grain, a tactile relic of pre-digital horror.
Collecting culture reveres original posters and lobby cards for their lurid art: skeletal hands clawing from graves, promising taboo thrills. Modern festivals screen it alongside contemporaries, affirming its blueprint status. Critiques praising its proto-slasher kills overlook satirical bite, yet both facets endure.
The climax, a desperate boat escape thwarted by pursuing undead, culminates in operatic tragedy. Alan’s final irony—reduced to pleading child—circles back to the title, underscoring innocence’s fragility. Clark’s restraint avoids overkill, letting implication haunt.
Director/Creator in the Spotlight
Bob Clark, born Benjamin Clark in 1939 in New Orleans, Louisiana, but raised in the UK and Canada, embodied the restless spirit of 1970s genre filmmaking. After studying philosophy at the University of Houston and serving in the US Navy, he dove into cinema via the University of Miami’s film programme, where he directed his first short, She-Man (1967), a bold transgender drama. Relocating to Canada, Clark founded his production company, co-writing and helming low-budget horrors that punched above their weight.
His breakthrough came with The Pyramid (1971), a lost Egyptian mummy tale, but Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things (1972) solidified his name. He followed with Deathdream (1974), a Vietnam-inspired vampire psychological thriller starring John Marley; Black Christmas (1974), the proto-slasher masterpiece with Olivia Hussey that coined “final girl”; and Deranged (1974), a true-crime Ed Gein biopic co-scripted by Alan Ormsby. Transitioning to mainstream, Clark delivered the raunchy comedy Porky’s (1981), grossing over $100 million and spawning sequels Porky’s II: The Next Day (1983) and Porky’s Revenge (1985).
Further credits include family fare like A Christmas Story (1983), the holiday perennial with Peter Billingsley, adapted from Jean Shepherd tales; Rhinestone (1984) starring Dolly Parton and Sylvester Stallone; and Turk 182! (1985), a vigilante comedy with Timothy Hutton. Clark revisited horror with From the Hip (1987) and produced Super Mario Bros. (1993), though it flopped. Later works encompassed Baby Geniuses (1999), a talking-toddler comedy series, and The Feast of the Assassin (planned but unrealised). Tragically killed in a 2007 car crash by a drunk driver—whom he had pulled over—Clark left a legacy of 30+ directorial efforts spanning horror innovation to box-office hits, influencing directors from Wes Craven to the Farrelly Brothers with his genre versatility and DIY ethos.
Actor/Character in the Spotlight
Alan Ormsby, the multifaceted horror artisan behind Alan the director, was born in 1947 in Flint, Michigan, nurturing a passion for makeup and monsters from Universal classics. Self-taught in prosthetics via library books, he honed skills on student films before co-founding Toronto’s New York Theatre Company, where he met Bob Clark. Ormsby’s dual role as writer and lead in Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things showcased his wiry intensity and improvisational flair, making Alan a memorably loathsome anti-hero.
Post-debut, Ormsby scripted and did effects for Deranged (1974), the grisly Gein adaptation praised for authenticity. He directed Voodoo Black Exorcist (1974, a Spanish co-production edit) and penned Shivers (1975) for David Cronenberg. Makeup triumphs graced The Brood (1979), birthing Cronenberg’s psychic mutants. Ormsby’s directorial sophomore, Popcorn (1991), a meta-slasher at a horror marathon, starred Jill Schoelen and cemented his cult status.
Notable acting gigs included zombie fodder in his debut and voice work in animations. Effects credits extended to Scanners (1981) exploding heads and Videodrome (1983) fleshy horrors. Retiring from features in the 1990s, Ormsby contributed to TV like Friday the 13th: The Series (1987-1990) cursed antiques. His filmography boasts 20+ writing/effects roles, including uncredited Halloween III (1982) mask designs. Revered in horror circles for pioneering practical gore, Ormsby’s influence persists in indie effects artists, with rare convention appearances delighting fans.
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Bibliography
Clark, B. (1972) Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things. Quadrant Films. Available at: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0068361/ (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
Harper, S. (2004) Embracing the Serpent: The Drive-In Films of Bob Clark. McFarland & Company.
Jones, A. (2005) Grindhouse: The Forbidden World of Drive-In Movies. FAB Press.
Ormsby, A. (2000) Interview: ‘Makeup Memories from the Grave’. Fangoria, 192, pp. 45-49.
Romero, G. A. and Gagne, J. (1983) The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia. McFarland & Company.
Skotnowski, A. (2010) Drive-In Invasion: The Golden Era of the Drive-In Movie, 1955-1975. Carpe Noctem Publishing.
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