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Arkadin · 20/03/13/21/02/06

En pleine folie zombie, l'occasion est trop belle de faire le tour des films consacrés aux morts qui marchent:

1- Indéboulonable, inaccessible, inégalable: le bien nommé Zombie ( ou Dawn Of The Dead en V.O) du maître George Romero.

L'idée géniale de placer l'action dans un centre commercial où errent encore des zombies esclaves de leurs habitudes passées constitue une satire sociale d'une justesse imparable, et les morceaux de bravoure ne manquent pas: l'introduction avec les forces spéciales qui investissent un immeuble où les gens refusent d'abandonner leurs morts aux équarisseurs du gouvernement, les derniers moments de la station télé qui retransmet infos et débats jusqu'au dernier moment et bien sûr l'attaque du centre commercial par la horde sauvage de Tom Savini, par ailleurs maquilleur de génie qui gagne ici ses galons de légende du cinéma fantastique.

2-Braindead

juste avant de s'attaquer à un cinéma plus consensuel avec Créatures Celestes puis Fantômes contre Fantômes et surtout la trilogie que l'on sait, Peter Jackson aimait le gros gore qui tâche ( et il le montre encore à l'occasion). Avec Braindead il voulait faire une sortie remarquée du genre qui l'avait révélé en faisant le film le plus gore de l'histoire! pari réussi, dans la scène finale les effusions d'hémoglobine se comptent en dizaines de litres à l'heure, et tout ça dans la bonne humeur! car le gore ça peut aussi faire rigoler!

3- Shaun Of The Dead

après avoir fait leurs armes à la BBC, le duo Simon Pegg ( scénariste/acteur) et Edgar Wright ( scénariste/ réalisateur) décidèrent un jour de tenter leur chance sur grand écran, et quoi de mieux pour commencer qu'un film de zombies? mais pas n'importe quel film: une comédie au charme et au flegme tout britanique mais totalement respectueuse des règles du genre; le plus bel hommage possible à George Romero, qui, charmé, les engagea pour une apparition éclair dans Le Territoire Des Morts, le 4è opus de sa saga en constante évolution.

4- Le Jour des Mort-Vivants

le 3è opus de la saga de papy Romero est souvent occulté de sa filmographie, pourtant il a toutes les qualités d'un classique.
Continuant son exploration des rapports humains en milieu fermé entouré de zombies, il a choisi cette fois de s'intéresser à l'armée et à la science. Entre les militaires et les scientifiques d'un complexe souterrain les civils ne sont que des bouches à nourrir ou de la chair à canon ( ou à zombie si vous préférez), et finalement ce sont les zombies qui montrent le plus d'humanité lorsque tout s'écroule, tel ce brave Bub qui vengera la mort du scientifique qui l'étudiait.

5- Zombieland

les rednecks aussi ont le droit de casser du zombie! et qui de mieux pour les représenter que ce cinglé notable de Woody Harrelson?
Il n 'est pas le héros du film ( ce serait plutôt le futur interprète de mark Zuckerberg) mais il vole littéralement toutes les scènes dans lesquelles il apparait. L'entrain communicatif qu'il met à démastiquer du mort-vivant, sa gouaille de cow boy échoué dans le monde moderne et son obsession pour les twinkies le rendent immédiatement attachant autant qu'inquiétant, une sorte de version sympa de son personnage de Tueurs Nés, et puis il y a Bill Murray!!!
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"Ne remets pas à demain ce que tu peux faire après-demain." Alphonse Allais http://arkadin-arkablog.blogspot.com/

James227 · petite frappe Inscrit le: 02 Déc 2025 Messages: 16

My sister Margaret is seventy-three years old and has been living in a nursing home for five years. Not because she needs to be, but because we couldn't afford any other option. She has mild dementia, the kind that comes with age, but she's still sharp enough to know where she is and what she's missing. She shares a room with three other women, eats when they tell her to eat, sleeps when they tell her to sleep. She's lost her privacy, her independence, her dignity.

I visit every Sunday. I bring her treats, read to her, try to make her laugh. She smiles, tells me she's fine, asks about my life. But I see it. I see the light dimming behind her eyes. She's not fine. She's just too proud to say otherwise.

Last month, I found a place. An assisted living facility, small and homey, with private rooms and a garden and real freedom. The kind of place where she could actually live, not just exist. The cost is four thousand dollars a month. Four thousand I don't have.

I'm a retired postal worker. I live on a pension and social security, and it's enough to get by, barely, but not enough for things like this. I've already spent what little savings I had on her care. There's nothing left to give.

The night it happened, I was sitting in my apartment after visiting her. Two in the morning, staring at the wall, running through the same mental loop over and over. Four thousand dollars a month. How could I find four thousand dollars a month? I'd already cut everything I could cut. There was nothing left to give.

I grabbed my phone out of habit, just to have something to look at. I'd heard about online casinos from a friend, how you could play for fun, how it was a decent way to kill time when you couldn't sleep. I'd never tried it, never really thought about it. But that night, desperate and tired and out of options, I decided to see what it was about. I found the site, but my usual access wasn't working. The site was blocked, or down, or just being difficult. I'd been through this before. I knew the drill. A quick search, a little patience, and I found a latest Vavada mirror that was still active.

I created an account, deposited a hundred bucks, and started playing. I didn't know what I was doing, so I picked something simple. A slot game with a garden theme, of all things. Flowers and trees and peaceful paths. It felt like fate. I set the bet to minimum and started spinning.

For the first hour, nothing. The usual rhythm, the gentle churn, the slow erosion of my balance. I dropped to eighty, climbed back to ninety, dropped to seventy. Just a standard session, the kind that ends with a shrug and a sigh. But I kept playing. Partly because I had nothing better to do, partly because the game was soothing in its own way, partly because I wasn't ready to go back to staring at the wall and feeling like a failure.

Then the bonus symbols landed. Three of them, right across the middle reel. The screen went dark for a second, and when it lit up again, I was in some kind of peaceful garden. Flowers blooming, paths winding, the whole production. I didn't really understand what was happening, but the numbers on my balance started climbing. Slowly at first, then faster. A hundred dollars. Three hundred. Five hundred. I sat up straighter, suddenly paying attention.

The garden continued. More flowers, more paths, more prizes. My balance hit a thousand. Then two thousand. Then three thousand. I was holding my breath, my heart hammering, my hand gripping the phone so hard my fingers ached. The game kept going, kept paying, kept building. Four thousand. Five thousand. When it finally stopped, my balance was just over fifty-one hundred dollars.

Fifty-one hundred.

I stared at the screen for a long time. Long enough that my phone dimmed, then went dark. I unlocked it, checked the balance again. Still there. Still real. I thought about Margaret. About the assisted living facility. About the four thousand I needed for her first month. About the eleven hundred left over that could help with deposits, moving costs, everything she needed to start her new life. And I started to shake.

I cashed out immediately. Didn't play another cent, didn't try to double it, didn't do anything stupid. I withdrew the whole thing and spent the next two days waiting for it to hit my account, checking my phone every few hours, planning how I'd tell her. When the money cleared, I drove to the nursing home, sat her down in the sad little visiting area, and handed her an envelope.

She opened it slowly, pulled out the bank statement, and just stared. Fifty-one hundred dollars. She looked at me, looked at the paper, looked at me again. Her hands started shaking.

What is this, she whispered.

It's your freedom, I said. It's your dignity. It's me finally giving back even a fraction of what you gave me.

She tried to refuse. Said she couldn't take it, that I'd worked too hard, that she was fine where she was. But I told her I didn't care about any of that. I told her she'd spent her whole life taking care of me, and now it was my turn. I told her this wasn't a loan or a gift, it was what sisters do. She cried then. Really cried, the way people do when they've been holding it together for too long and something finally breaks through.

Margaret moves into the assisted living facility next month. She has her own room, her own bathroom, a window that looks out on a garden. She'll have freedom, dignity, a real life. She's already planning, decorating, dreaming. She's alive in a way she hasn't been in years. And every time I see that light in her eyes, I know I made the right choice.

I still play sometimes. Late at night, when I can't sleep, when the apartment is quiet and my brain needs a break. And when my usual access point is blocked, I know how to find a latest Vavada mirror. But I'll never forget that night, that garden, that moment when luck decided to show up and give my sister her dignity back. Fifty-one hundred dollars changed everything. Not in some dramatic, movie-of-the-week way. In a quiet, everyday way. It bought her a home. It bought her peace. It bought her the chance to finally, after five years, live again.

She's in the nursing home right now, probably, packing her things, getting ready to leave. And every time I think about her, every time I picture that light in her eyes, I remember that night. About the hand I was dealt. About the choice I made to play it. Sometimes the universe gives you exactly what you need when you least expect it.