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The shine of a big break doesn’t always light the path ahead. We sit down with character actor Robert LaSardo to explore what success really feels like when the cheers fade and the measuring starts—how to wear your colors after a loss, why loyalty outlasts gossip, and what it takes to keep your spirit intact inside a machine that rewards visibility while testing your soul.

Robert brings us into the surreal joy of working on The Mule with Clint Eastwood—from a simple self-tape to notes, a greenlight, and then the quiet shock of meeting a legend who leads without ego. He shares how Eastwood “plays jazz” on set, trusts improvisation, and eats with his crew like family. That humility becomes a masterclass in creative leadership: protect the work, respect people, and let honesty breathe. We also touch on a tender moment with Andy Garcia that affirms how old-school respect still matters and how being seen can reset your day.

From there, the conversation tackles film literacy, lowered standards, and the seduction of spectacle. Robert contrasts meaningful storytelling with the numbing effect of relentless visual stimulation and weightless violence. He champions writing what you know, building teams around authenticity, and using craft to entertain without dumbing down. We thread Scorsese’s evolving style, Woody Allen’s neurotic wit, and the enduring power of films like The Poseidon Adventure, American Graffiti, and The Exorcist—stories that last because they carry consequence, atmosphere, and soul.

Robert closes with American Trash, his new film in post-production: a raw, compassionate portrait of PTSD, apathy, and environmental care set in Los Angeles. It’s a 1960s spirit reimagined for right now, asking us to look at the ground under our feet and the people beside us, then choose community over indifference. If you care about acting, directing, or simply watching better movies, this conversation is a compass—equal parts grit, gratitude, and guidance.

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The best horror stories aren’t just on screen—they’re the ones told in the glow of dead‑of‑night lights, long after the credits. We sit down with cast and crew from Dawn of the Dead to relive the midnight Monroeville shoots, the improvised zombie gigs, and the wild on‑set mishaps that became legend. From a neck‑bite effect gone hilariously wrong to a crew member who asked George Romero for a shot and walked away as the machete zombie, these are unscripted, human moments that turned a cult classic into a lifelong bond.

What makes these memories stick is how ordinary they started. One panelist only came because a friend insisted. Another was just an 11‑year‑old who could stay awake while other kid zombies crashed, perfectly embodying Romero’s idea of “residual memory” as he bumped a toy bike down a fluorescent hallway. A teacher brought a Super 8 camera to show students what a set looked like and accidentally created a DVD extra that now anchors the movie’s archive. The mall itself remains a character—still a place some of them shop, still a trigger for recall—with every corridor doubling as a portal back to 3 a.m.

We trace the film’s unlikely afterlife through media history: from three broadcast channels and strict censorship to the arrival of pay TV, Betamax, and VHS that kept the undead alive at home. The panelists talk about walking into their first conventions in Strongsville and beyond, astonished to find passionate fans from Nova Scotia, England, Germany, even Hawaii. Autographs, photos, and t‑shirts came later; the connection came first. Decades on, the reunions feel warmer than high school anniversaries because the memories were forged under pressure, creativity, and the practical magic of Tom Savini’s effects.

If Dawn of the Dead lives on, it’s because people keep telling these stories—small, funny, honest—and inviting new fans into the crowd. Join us, subscribe for more behind‑the‑scenes lore, and share your first Dawn of the Dead memory in a review or with a friend who loves horror history.

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A crowded floor at Living Dead Weekend, a mic in the “fishbowl,” and one of horror’s key voices reflecting on how a scrappy regional production became a global touchstone. We sit down with Russ Streiner to unpack the 30-day, two-block shoot behind Night of the Living Dead, the trade-offs of keeping commercial clients afloat while chasing a dream project, and the nerve-wracking distributor road trip that collided with national tragedy. The result isn’t a victory lap; it’s a frank study in how timing, casting, and theme can elevate a low-budget horror film into a cultural landmark.

We dig into why Duane Jones’s lead performance mattered then and still matters now, and how the film’s stark frames, practical approach, and moral ambiguity gave it staying power far beyond its modest means. Russ shares how spontaneous moments and small line tweaks helped shape the movie’s voice, and we zoom out to compare craft elements—like the chilling role of music in The Shining—against Night’s raw, cut-to-the-bone rhythm. Along the way, we celebrate film geek moments, from Dr. Strangelove trivia to the joy of discovering that a kept stumble or an ad lib can become canon.

Through it all, Russ credits the fans for the film’s longevity. Community screenings, classroom debates, and con conversations have kept Night of the Living Dead alive for generations, proving that independent horror thrives when audiences see themselves in the fear, the fallout, and the choices that define the living. If you love horror history, indie filmmaking, or the story behind enduring cult cinema, you’ll find plenty to chew on here. If this conversation hits home, follow the show, share it with a friend, and leave a quick review—what keeps Night of the Living Dead alive for you?

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Horror history feels different when you’re standing where it happened. We sit down at Living Dead Weekend 2024 to celebrate George A. Romero, trade stories with longtime friends, and trace how a single location—the Monroeville Mall—became a cultural landmark that still pulls fans from the UK, Germany, and beyond. It’s part reunion, part field study in why certain films never fade: they attach to places, people, and rituals that outlast trends.

Our conversation dives into Creepshow and why it remains a high-water mark for anthology horror. We talk about the EC Comics DNA baked into the film’s design, the craft of threading five stories without losing momentum, and the joy of working with icons like Hal Holbrook, Fritz Weaver, and Leslie Nielsen. The set memories are unforgettable, from performance notes to Nielsen’s infamous “fart box,” a perfectly timed prank that says everything about his comic instincts. That story becomes a lens on his career arc—from early heavy in dramatic TV to deadpan genius in Police Squad and The Naked Gun—showing how Creepshow acted as a bridge between two distinct personas.

We widen the lens to celebrate genre shapeshifters like George Kennedy and Christopher Walken, exploring how great actors manage tension, timing, and tone whether they’re playing menace or mirth. There’s a loving nod to Walken’s under-the-radar comedic turn in Envy, plus reflections on why malls and movie locations function as living archives for fans. If you care about Romero’s legacy, the evolution of anthology horror, or the alchemy that lets actors cross from drama to comedy, you’ll feel right at home here—surrounded by stories, laughter, and a community that keeps the flame alive.

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Horror stays scary when the set stays alive, and few directors kept a set more awake than George Romero. We’re at Living Dead Weekend inside the Monroeville Mall with Michael Gornick and Tom Dubinsky, digging into the craft behind Dawn of the Dead, Martin, and Creepshow—where a passing idea could turn into the next unforgettable moment. From the Westinghouse lights shutting down floor by floor to a mall blood pressure machine that inspired a gnarly gag, you’ll hear how real-life details became on-screen legend through quick thinking and a crew ready to pivot.

Michael and Tom pull back the curtain on Romero’s process: open scripts, sharp eyes, and a willingness to fold in whatever the world offered that day. We talk timing a helicopter shot to a skyline, inventing non-gun zombie kills like the screwdriver to the ear, and navigating mall hours where the music cut them off at seven. The result is a practical playbook for indie and studio shooters alike—use your environment, embrace constraints, and let spontaneity guide the camera.

Creepshow brings a lighter twist with Leslie Nielsen’s notorious pocket whoopee cushion, a running bit that tested patience, then restored it with perfect comedic timing. We connect those pranks to Nielsen’s deadpan legacy in Police Squad and The Naked Gun, showing how performance, rhythm, and tone cross from horror to comedy with the same precision. We close with updates on Tom’s documentary work with Tony Buba and both guests’ memoirs, capturing lessons from decades of fearless filmmaking.

If you care about how iconic scenes are born—half planning, half lightning strike—this conversation will arm you with tools and stories you can use on your next shoot. Listen, subscribe, and share your favorite Romero moment with us. Your pick might inspire the next great set story.

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The floorboards of horror history creak a little louder when Joe Shelby pulls up a chair. We’re recording from Living Dead Weekend 2024, surrounded by friends, fans, and the kind of stories that only happen when a cult classic like Dawn of the Dead becomes a lifelong passport. Joe opens up about working within George Romero’s orbit and why that spirit of resourceful, human filmmaking still guides the way we write, cast, and shoot today.

We trade neighborhood hellos for set secrets, then dig into the art of homage without the handcuffs. You’ll hear how a battered writing desk once owned by Romero turned into a ritual for screenplays, contest wins, and a published zombie rom-com that winks at horror canon while building its own world. Joe walks us through Green Man, a scrappy indie that flips an urban legend from threat to guardian, repurposes road closures into story stakes, and fills the frame with living dead alumni playing against type. It’s a masterclass in practical effects, quick pivots, and the magic that happens when your poster star is you, sprinting to the tunnel for the perfect shot.

Then we turn the screws on fear itself. Inspired by Creepshow’s final segment, we dive into why cockroaches haunt the collective gut more than spiders ever could, and how sound, scale, and suggestion make small creatures feel apocalyptic. Along the way, we swap con-floor lore, celebrate generous fans who bring rare discs and red coats, and underline a simple rule: horror thrives when the community does. If you love Romero, indie filmmaking, practical effects, or the strange warmth of a genre family that remembers your name, this conversation hits home.

If this sparked an idea—or a shiver—follow the show, share it with a horror friend, and leave a quick review. Your notes help us keep the lights low and the stories sharp.

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A late-night ask changed horror history. We’re at Living Dead Weekend 2024 with Lenny Lee—yes, the machete zombie from George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead—unpacking how a crew guy became a cult icon, how a practical head gag sold one of the film’s most unforgettable moments, and why a 19-second shot still pulls cheers decades later. This is a ground-level look at Romero’s set culture: collaborative, curious, and open to anyone willing to get their hands dirty.

Lenny walks us through the pivot from lights and camera to on-screen monster, the careful blocking behind the biker melee with Tom Savini, and the practical effects that made the “one-take” illusion feel raw and dangerous. We relive the Pittsburgh premiere when the theater roared for every familiar face, and follow the clip’s afterlife as it carried Lenny to conventions around the world. Along the way, we trade stories of 16mm projection, near-misses with hungry projectors, and backyard screenings where the thrum of the machine and fog in the beam turned film into community.

We don’t stop at nostalgia. You’ll hear mall-tour trivia that digs deeper than photo ops, the reveal that David Emge (Flyboy) was a Vietnam veteran who actually knew his way around a rifle, and the wild fact that the bank scene tossed real money that had to be accounted for down to the last bill. It’s a vivid time capsule and a craft masterclass rolled into one: practical effects, analog cinema, and the fan energy that keeps Dawn of the Dead undead. If you love Romero, Savini, horror history, or the grit of filmmaking before pixels, this one’s for you. Hit follow, share with your horror crew, and leave a review with the moment that made you a Dawn believer.

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