The musical dance scene was particularly disturbing.
The Walking Dead (1936) chronicles the classic revenge from beyond the grave tale. John Ellman, a poor man walking about an unnamed contemporary American city, happens to stumble into a fresh murder scene, is accused of the shooting, and, as the research lab assistants who initially accused him dither in fear, is executed.
So who did it? A city-wide conspiracy of business leaders. The worship of money and power is without bounds, and the death of Ellman is meaningless to them.
Until the head of the research lab decides to try out his untested revivification methods on Ellman, at the urging of his guilt-stricken assistants. Soon enough, he’s strolling about, playing the piano, and, when justice fails, taking his revenge on both the hired hands and those who paid those hands to kill them.
Is this memorable? No, not really. Plot holes include the question of why a revivified guy can outmuscle the original muscle that killed him. Nor is Ellman all that charming.
But it’s not a bad little movie, either. It comes off as a B-list horror flick, and I suspect that was the extent of the ambition of the movie makers. But the idea that arrogant murderers can be tripped up by the lowest of the low is a quintessentially American idea, the underdog leaping at the throat of its enemy.
So if you’re a Boris Karloff completist, this particular entry in his canon won’t hurt you to watch, unlike some.
