THE DEAD ZONE

I circle back to The Dead Zone often. It’s one of my favorite Stephen King adaptations and ties The Fly as my favorite David Cronenberg flick. It’s hard to find someone who doesn’t like the film. How could they not? It’s a well-told story with great actors, draped in melancholy without going near melodrama. 

At the heart is Christopher Walken in his best performance. Like Nic Cage, Walken’s rep runs into the realm of parody. It’s tough not to conjure images of some odd personality (the guy who has the fever for more cowbell, the over-the-top villain of Batman Returns or A View to a Kill, the guy who can really dance in ‘90s music videos). 

But it’s tough to imagine anyone else playing Johnny Smith. Of all the horror-heroes out there, he’s the one who I sympathize with the most. There is so much pain, disappointment, and tragedy in his arc, met only by his quiet dignity and decency, it’s tough for me to get ten-minutes into the film without wanting to cry.

A car accident, three bullets, self-exile, a pauper’s grave, and forever seen by the public he saved as the villain. The world will only know Johnny as a crank-case, a would-be assassin — another psycho-loner with a gun and a god complex — instead of the Christ figure he actually is. That’s okay. For a person like Johnny, that’s what makes him the hero. A hero sacrifices himself for his tribe to live. In that, Johnny earns that stripe in spades