The specter of mumblecore has been haunting the lenses of cinema cameras since the early 2000s, looming large over film studies classrooms and in the DVD collections of amateur pop-punk vocalists for over two decades now. The unconscious subculture (defined by a lo-fi aesthetic and slice-of-life narratives that live more in intimate moments than dynamic plot twists) has twisted and evolved over the course of the last 20 years, and in Clay Tatum’s directorial debut The Civil Dead, the low-budget predilections of the proto-genre smash into the afterlife antics of Ghost to create a film that is equal parts irreverent and heartwarming despite the occasional snag here or there.
After a disconnected opening that teases the film’s spooky underbelly, Clay Tatum introduces us to, well, Clay — the director actually steps in front of the camera as its main character, a photographer with an eternity gone since his acclaimed debut project. Though this may be a daunting task for many filmmakers, Tatum embodies the role with a schlubby sense of indolence; while his wife is going away on a film shoot for a few days, Clay is tasked with staying at home and doing anything other than “sitting on the couch drinking beer all day.” Clay is a relatable character because he evokes those universal feelings of lethargy — no matter our station, we’ve all occasionally succumbed to the self-destructive tendency to evade the necessary actions that keep us alive.
It’s in an attempt to avoid his own inaction that Clay reconnects with Whit, an aspiring actor from his past, played by Whitmer Thomas. Whit’s character is easily the most dynamic element of the film, and Thomas relishes each of the layers that make up Whit’s personality. All at once, he’s energetic, and annoying, and charming, and pathetic, and slightly creepy, and self-deprecating and funny. But hiding underneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent of deep sadness that tethers us to his performance, even when the movie offers us nothing in the way of narrative aside from our two main characters talking, walking, and getting up to all sorts of morbidly-tinged hijinks around the streets of Los Angeles.
The Civil Dead couples its naturalistic storytelling with a visual style that captures the beauty of the mundane — the city of Los Angeles is framed as a place that can simultaneously be perfectly ordinary and quietly miraculous. Whit and Clay’s interactions frequently call forth warm lighting that underscores the shifting politics of their relationship — when they meet each other, they’re two men who are quietly drowning in aimlessness and a feeling of general malaise.
Without spoiling the film’s subtle central hook, the supernatural element of The Civil Dead is cleverly employed in a way that strips it of its terrifying pop culture context and connects it to a powerful allegory about loneliness — are we really living if we’re not doing it with other people? There’s an initial comfort in loneliness and lethargy, as evidenced by Clay’s bitter introversion, but there’s a vulnerability that the two of them are allowed in their relationship that highlights the power of connection — be they familial, romantic, or even platonic.
Although the film’s ending can’t help but feel a little sudden due to the absence of traditional plotting, The Civil Dead is still certainly a movie worth seeing. Despite mentions of a certain “spooky” factor in its promotion at Slamdance, the movie doesn’t wallow in a horrific atmosphere, or even use the supernatural presence therein to scare you. More than anything, it’s a movie about how time flies when you’re having fun with friends, and how at the end of the day, the best parts of life are the ones that you live with the people around you.
