The Amusement Park: The Horrors of Ageism
In 1973, the Lutheran Service Society commissioned a Pittsburgh-based production company called Latent Image to produce an educational film about ageism. What is unclear is whether or not the Society was familiar with the other work of the young filmmaker they hired—namely, a pair of films called Night of the Living Dead (1968) and The Crazies (1973). This director, of course, was George A. Romero, and the film he produced for them, The Amusement Park, would go unreleased for nearly 50 years, buried by the confounded charity because of its disturbing imagery. Thankfully, though, the film was unearthed by the George A. Romero Foundation and restored by the crew at IndieCollect, and is now available for public viewing for the first time on Shudder.
I would hate to brand The Amusement Park as a horror film, not because of any perceived stigma the label has or as any indication of the quality laymen might come to expect from it, but because the film was created for the singular purpose of calling attention to the effects of aging and the heartbreaking prevalence of ageism and elder abuse. But it’s through Romero’s unique lens of horror that he chooses to make his message clear—and it is crystal clear.
The Amusement Park stars Lincoln Maazel (Tata Cuda in Romero’s Martin) as an unnamed protagonist who finds himself the victim of a cruel and indifferent society in the form of a busy amusement park. The premise is simple and yet is incredibly effective. From the start, Romero showcases his style and boldness behind the camera. A sense of agoraphobia quickly sets in as throngs of park visitors pass between Maazel and the low angle of the camera, signs and instructions are obscured and difficult to read, and as Maazel stands in line to buy a string of tickets, a palpable sense of urgency from the park employee flusters the man as he tries to work out his budget in his mind. Once through this trial, however, it becomes painfully obvious that this is no ordinary amusement park. A police officer, for instance, takes an accident report on the bumper cars and a crowd jeers elderly couples being paraded as “freaks.” Every now and then, the Grim Reaper unceremoniously appears in the background, not always present, but never far away.
Though the episodes get increasingly outlandish, we never question their direction. We know that each has within them a kernel of truth that justifiably shocks and horrifies us. Maazel is harassed and ridiculed, beaten and conned, ignored and discarded. He watches helplessly as the rich and the young get preferential treatment over himself and others like him. Not even his few moments of rest are his own. In the end, Maazel finds his way back where he began, a blindingly white room, where he sits, bloodied and exhausted, repeating to himself, “There’s nothing out there—you won’t like it.”
I can’t quite blame the Lutheran Society for rejecting The Amusement Park. What they likely expected was a bright and sterile film about how we ought to venerate our elders and treat them with the compassion and respect they deserve. I imagine they hoped to pull viewers to action—to give their time and money to the senior services that need them. What Romero delivered wasn’t intended to pull viewers, but push them—hard. It is an admonishment to the “out of sight, out of mind” attitude we have toward seniors, and it brings into stark focus how frightening the world can be when the older members of society don’t have the resources they need to keep living a happy and fulfilling life. While the tone may not be appropriate for a community center’s volunteer drive, it is painfully effective at delivering the message, and it is truly a blessing that it can finally get the recognition it deserves, in the prominent oeuvre of one of horror’s greatest masters.
Article written by Ande Thomas
Ande loves the intersection of sci-fi and horror, where our understanding of the natural world clashes with our fear of the new and unknown. He writes about monsters and foreign horror and can also be found over on Letterboxd.
