IN THE FLESH. A BAFTA-Winning Gem of a Zombie Series

A series. About zombies. First associations? Of course The Walking Dead, but in my opinion, it’s at best an average production—getting weaker, more banal, more formulaic, and more irritating with each season. Still, it is the first genuine series about the living dead, which on one hand follows a well-trodden path—this year marks 57 years since the release of Romero’s still magnificent Night of the Living Dead—but on the other hand, the aesthetics of classic horror have rarely made their way to the small screen, especially not in such a literal, bloody form as in The Walking Dead. That’s why it’s hard not to appreciate this production, not to take an interest in it—especially if we’re fans of this noble subgenre and excitedly devour every available work that plays with zombie themes. In the Flesh.

So forget for a moment about AMC’s American production and turn your eyes and ears to what the British have to offer. Those familiar with and watching Channel 4, BBC, or E4 productions know well that recent years have brought a whole slew of television shows that—in terms of ideas, execution, engagement with genre clichés, and simply moral courage—can serve as a model of what contemporary series should look like. Black Mirror, The Shadow Line, Luther, Misfits, Sherlock, Skins, Orphan Black, Utopia—the list of unconventional and extremely intriguing productions is even longer, and I am very glad that In the Flesh—a zombie series—perfectly fits the high expectations that a devoted serial viewer places on English productions.

What’s it about? First and foremost, the twist of the entire story, which in the first minutes turns all previous experiences with the world of the living dead upside down. We’re shown a kind of hospital where zombies are… being treated. This means, simply, that the epidemic that caused the reanimation of the dead and all the tragedy that followed was stopped by humanity. Like plague, cholera, tuberculosis, typhus, and other diseases that once ravaged mankind, the rot plagued the human race for several years—until a cure was discovered, allowing zombies (though no one actually calls them that) to return to the world of the living while being—most intriguingly—still technically dead. Literally—still not alive. Memory, emotions, senses—all of it begins to function again under therapy, in a corpse that biologically stopped developing at the moment it emerged from the grave.

In the Flesh doesn’t delve into the history of the epidemic: it doesn’t mention media frenzy or explore the global status quo. We are placed far from politics, big cities, and collective experience. We follow the story of one character—a teenager named Kieran Walker, who returns to the world of the living, that is, to his village of Roarton in Lancashire, in the north of England. The place Kieran comes from plays a significant role in In the Flesh, as it determines all future events, and it is in confrontation with this place that the characters are drawn.

Roarton is home to few people—it’s a truly small town, surrounded by woods, bathed in fog and eternal drizzle. The harsh climate has instilled in the local community a resistance not only to the dreary weather but also to anything that might threaten them, cut off as they are from civilization. In other words, it’s about mechanisms typical of closed groups: moral conservatism, the strong role of religion, respect for tradition, honor, hard work, and sacrifice for the good of the community. We saw this already in Breaking the Waves by Lars von Trier, where Bess is confronted by members of a Scottish village—condemnation of difference, defense against the unknown, the incomprehensible. While the Danish film leans toward pure psychodrama with a defined goal (and a similar device is used in Dogville), In the Flesh doesn’t aim quite so high, though sociologically it’s very similar material for analysis.

Kieran Walker returns to Roarton and quickly realizes that he, a rotter who’s undergone therapy, is not welcome in his own home. His parents hide him because they know the village’s leaders won’t show mercy to their son—those like him, sick murderers, were eliminated, removed in order to protect everyone else. Pride, medals, respect—that’s what the partisans boast about, and the end of the war doesn’t have to mean tolerating that which is no longer… human? Alive? Feeling? After all, they’re rotten, powdered corpses who at any moment could start hunting innocent victims again. So—despite a government campaign supporting the return of the dead to the living—Roarton resists the new law.

I’d like to write “Until…”, but the series doesn’t offer that kind of hope. This is not a friendly, optimistic story of conversions to the good side of the force—full of growing kindness, acceptance, and other such feel-good nonsense expected from uplifting tales. In the Flesh is rather brutal in its portrayal of the feelings of societies like Roarton; it’s a portrayal that is realistic, sober, and not overdone. At times I felt that the creators, despite crafting TV bad guys, were trying to justify the protagonist’s antagonists—if only through the fact that their reactions are so… human. Fear? Certainly. But above all, they are motivated by an ingrained sense of responsibility for the community they are part of and have wholly devoted themselves to—both now and during the Rising, the battle against the undead.

This collective portrait is complemented by equally complex depictions of the living dead. They are not impersonal zombies, but thinking, feeling beings who are aware of who they were (mindless monsters), what they are responsible for (often the deaths of their neighbors), and who they are now (half-dead beings with what is called PDS—Partially Deceased Syndrome).

Moreover, the main character’s story—Kieran’s—is very intriguing and surprising: his difficult relationship with his family, the delicately and non-explicitly presented gay subplot, and his life before resurrection. An ambiguous figure, rather passive, withdrawn, not shaping the reality around him, nor seeking Great Meaning in his existence here and now. He, the other zombies, the other living humans—each is someone, looking for something, driven by something, with needs, with secrets. How different this is from all those comic book-style stories, led by The Walking Dead, where zombie play is predictable—in both the building of the post-apocalyptic world and the behavior of people toward each other and the dead.

It was brilliantly conceived by Dominic Mitchell, a 34-year-old, relatively inexperienced screenwriter, for whom this was his first real television experience. He had previously written plays (as nearly every British screenwriter seems to begin in theater), until the opportunity arose to participate in a sort of seminar/course/casting organized by the BBC in northern England—called Northern Voices—for talented young writers with ready-made ideas. Mitchell was assigned a mentor—John Faye from the acclaimed Torchwood—and for nearly a year he refined the story of In the Flesh, creating the so-called series bible. It was a perfect experience, he said in an interview. It cemented all the knowledge in my head, filled in the story—because so much had happened before and during the Rising.

The result? Glowing reviews in the media and a BAFTA  for Best Mini-Series of 2013, as well as a nomination for Luke Newberry for Best Leading Actor. Of course, the production’s success quickly led to the commissioning of another season—for the BBC, it’s a matter of prestige and another major success in their portfolio; for Mitchell, it’s an opportunity to expand the universe he created. Anyone seeking interesting television experiences should turn their attention to this modest, unconventional production. I wholeheartedly recommend it—not only for zombie lovers, but for all seekers of good series.