Zombies were dormant when screenwriter Alex Garland convinced director Danny Boyle to resurrect the undead — and make them run. The galloping ghouls in their low-budget 2002 thriller “28 Days Later” reinvigorated the genre. There’s now been so many of them that they’ve come to feel moldy. So Garland and Boyle have teamed up again to see if there’s life in these old bones.
There is, albeit sporadically and spasmodically. “28 Years Later,” the first entry of a promised trilogy, has a dull central plot beefed up by unusual ambition, quirky side characters and maniacal editing. It’s a kooky spectacle, a movie that aggressively cuts from moments of philosophy to violence, from pathos to comedy. Tonally, it’s an ungainly creature. From scene to scene, it lurches like the brain doesn’t know what the body is doing. Garland and Boyle don’t want the audience to know either, at least not yet.
The plot picks up nearly three decades into a viral “rage” pandemic that’s isolated the British Isles from the civilized world. A couple hundred people have settled into a safe-enough life on Lindisfarne, an island that’s less than a mile from shore. The tide recedes every day for a few hours, long enough to walk across a narrow strip of causeway to the mainland. Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Isla (Jodie Comer) were young when normality collapsed, roughly the same age as the kids in the film’s cheeky opening flashback who are watching a VHS tape of “Teletubbies” while hearing the screams of their babysitters getting bitten. But these survivors have managed to grow up and become parents themselves. Given their harsh circumstances, Jamie and Isla have called their son Spike.
Name notwithstanding, 12-year-old Spike (Alfie Williams) is a sweet kid. When his father slips him a precious ration of bacon, he gives his share to his mother, who now lies weak and confused in an upstairs bedroom. The script pushes too hard to make Spike naive — blank and moldable — instead of what narrative logic tells us he is, the hardscrabble child of two stunted children. His career paths are hunter, forager or watchtower guard, but he seems more like the product of a progressive Montessori school, even with his dad urging him to cackle at shredded deer intestines. When the boy’s not looking, Johnson’s shoulders sag as he trudges up the stairs to Comer’s sickbed, showing us a hint of adult complexities he alone understands.
Spike’s storyline is a fairly simple coming-of-age journey. Once he’s slayed his first infected (“The more you kill, the easier it gets,” his dad gloats), Spike decides to sneak his sick mother to the mainland in search of a mythological being: a general medical practitioner. But straightaway, the movie’s editing (by Jon Harris) starts having a fit, seizing our attention as it splices in herky-jerky black-and-white archival footage of earlier generations of kids marching to protect their homes, both in newsreels and classical retellings including Laurence Olivier’s 1944 film of “Henry V.” The chilling electronic score by the Scottish group Young Fathers blurps and drones while an unseen voice recites Rudyard Kipling’s “Boots,” a poem about the grinding Boer War that was first published in 1903, but whose sense of slogging exhaustion sounds just as relevant to us as it would to Beowulf. These theatrics sound fancy, but they play deliberately abrasive and confounding. “28 Days Later” forced the audience to adapt to the ugliness of digital cameras, and despite the years and prestige that Garland and Boyle have accumulated since, they’ve still got a punk streak.
The filmmakers seem to be making the point that our own kinder, gentler idealism is the outlier. Humankind’s natural state is struggle and division. In this evocative setting, with its crumbling castle towers and tattered English flags, we’re elbowed to think of battles, from Brexit to the Vikings, who first attacked the British on this very same island in 793. A 9th century account describes the Lindisfarne massacre as nightmarish scenes of blood and trampling and terror, of “heathen men made lamentable havoc.” Those words could have been recycled into “28 Years Later’s” pitch deck.
As a side note, Lindisfarne remains so small and remote that it doesn’t even have any doctors today. The one we meet, Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), doesn’t show up until the last act. But he’s worth the wait, as is the messianic Jimmy (Jack O’Connell), who appears three minutes before the end credits and successfully gets us excited for the sequel, which has already been shot. (Jimmy’s tracksuits and bleached hair are evidence that his understanding of pop culture really did stop at Eminem.) Their characters inject so much energy into the movie that Boyle and Garland seem to be rationing their best material as strictly as Spike denies himself that slice of pork.
This confounding and headstrong movie doesn’t reveal everything it’s after. But it’s an intriguing comment on human progress. The uninfected Brits have had to rewind their society back a millennium. When a Swedish sailor named Erik (Edvin Ryding, marvelous) is forced ashore, he talks down to all the Brits like they’re cavemen. They’ve never even seen an iPhone (although the movie was itself shot on them). Upon seeing a picture of a modern Instagram babe plumped to a Kardashian ripeness, Spike gasps, “What’s wrong with her face?”
The infected ones have regressed further still and they’ve split into two sub-species: the grub-like “slow-low” zombies, who suck up worms with a vile slurp, and the Neanderthalish sprinters who hunt in packs. The fast ones even have an alpha (Chi Lewis-Parry) who is hellbent on taking big strides forward. One funny way he shows it is he’s made a hobby of ripping off his prey’s heads to use their spines as tools, or maybe even as décor.
Dr. Kelson, a shaman, sculptor and anthropologist, insists that even the infected still share a common humanity. “Every skull has had a thought,” he says, stabbing a freshly decapitated one with his pitchfork. He’s made an art of honoring death over these decades and his occasionally hallucinatory sequence is truly emotional, even if Fiennes, smeared with iodine and resembling a jaundiced Colonel Kurtz, made me burst out into giggles at the way he says “placenta.” Yet, I think we’re meant to laugh — he’s the exact mix of smart and silly the film is chasing.
So who, then, are the savages? The infected or us? The film shifts alliances without taking sides (yet). I’m unconvinced that sweetie pie Spike is the protagonist I want to follow for two more movies. But whatever happens, it’s a given that humans will eventually, stubbornly, relentlessly find a way to tear other humans to pieces, as we do in every movie, and just as we’ve done since the first homo sapien went after his rival with a stick. That’s the zombie genre’s visceral power: It reveals that the things that make us feel safe — love, loyalty, civility — are also our weaknesses. “28 Years Later” dares us to devolve.
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