George A. Romero may not have invented the zombie film, but he certainly perfected how the undead ghouls could be used to tell stories about the failures of humanity: racism, consumerism, class, xenophobia, and government corruption. Every zombie movie since Night of the Living Dead (1968) has either tried to recapture that magic or distance itself so as not to draw any comparisons to his legendary work, something that’s completely unavoidable for Tina Romero’s Queens of the Dead. While hordes of aspiring filmmakers claw their way in hopes of becoming the next Romero, Tina recognizes that the automatic buy-in from audiences thanks to her last name allows her the room to tell her zombie story.
The film opens at Yum, a struggling New York drag club run by Dre (Love Lies Bleeding breakout Katy O’Brian). When a rival venue, Glitter Bitch, steals her top performer, Dre enlists retired legendary queen Samoncé (Jaquel Spivey, Mean Girls) to help save the business. Their uneasy reunion plays out just as the zombie outbreak begins, drawing in a colorful ensemble: Yum’s hapless intern Kelsey (Jack Haven, I Saw the TV Glow), Dre’s pregnant wife Lizzy (Riki Lindhome), the reclusive Jane (Eve Lindley, National Anthem), dramatic influencer Nico aka Scrumptious (Tomás Matos, Fire Island), Samoncé’s drag mother and mentor Ginsey (Nina West), Jimmy the bartender (a wonderfully against-type Cheyenne Jackson) and, in a pitch-perfect bit of casting, Margaret Cho as a lawyer named Pops who has no problem obliterating zombies with power tools.
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Romero’s idea for the story is rooted in her own experiences during her first residency at Hot Rabbit, a recurring queer dance party in NYC as DJ Trx. A co-promoter of the event broke off to start a rival party on the same night, and it understandably sparked discourse on social media, culminating in a manifesto from the original promoter with the question, “When will the queer community stop devouring its own?” And so, Queens of the Dead isn’t using the queer-centric focus of the characters or setting as a gimmick the way so many non-Romero made “… Of The Dead” films that have come before have in an attempt to to evoke her father’s work, but as the DNA of the conflict and commentary at the heart of the story.
Given her father’s legacy, it would be permissible if Romero elected to take the easy route and make the undead a metaphor for homophobia or intolerance, but she doesn’t. Her target is the brainwashing power of digital overconsumption, something that queer people aren’t immune to just because we happen to be systemically marginalized in other areas of our lives. There’s also a bold critique of the queer community’s dependence on nightlife, while never denying the lifesaving sanctuary it has provided (and continues to provide) generations.
Co-written with Erin Judge, Romero’s screenplay understands a key rule of great horror, that the story should work even without the monsters. The queens, lovers, and misfits who populate Yum are all distinct and watchable, and no matter how larger-than-life their personalities appear, they genuinely feel like the different woven threads in the vibrant tapestry of queer spaces in big cities. Of course, those personalities are prone to clashing, but the friction comes from ego, insecurity, and survival instincts — not malice. Even Barry (Quincy Dunn-Baker), the film’s token straight and habitual consumer of right-wing podcasts, is more misguided than malicious.
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Zombification becomes a haunting reflection of a world that’s shut itself off. In the wreckage, the survivors must relearn the lifesaving skill of genuine conversation — to look one another in the eye, speak honestly, listen, and actually remember what they’ve said. Cooperation replaces isolation and in that shared struggle, Dre and Sam find something redemptive: a moment of release, of grace, of forgiveness. Queens of the Dead isn’t interested in rehashing tired reflections of “queer as the other,” but instead a showcase of the way intercommunity collaboration is a necessary part of queer survival, even if you’re in a life or death situation where people from underneath the LGBTQIA+ umbrella — your community members — are the ones trying to rip to you pieces.
And Romero lets the characters kill the zombie hordes with gleeful impunity, in the process providing the catharsis many queer and trans people are currently plagued with pretending we don’t want while the government continues to demonize us for the crime of *checks notes* ah, yeah, existing. But Romero’s movie is noticeably less cynical than her father’s work. These are characters who wake up every day under a regime that would rather we all disappear, even without a zombie apocalypse. But no matter how bad things seem to be, it never feels like hope is lost, because that’s not how we survive.
Visually, Queen of the Dead overcomes any budgetary shortcomings with creativity. Neon lights reflect off puddles of blood, and the scrappy production design lets us feel like we’ve been transported into a live show rather than a movie at the end of the world. The zombie virus spreads through queer people not unlike the political pipelines birthing Log Cabin Republicans or “LGB without the T” losers, marking their undead flesh with a distinct shade of decaying teal. But instead of exuding rot, hair and makeup designers Mitchell Beck and Christina Grant’s undead parade glimmers like their float was sponsored by loose glitter. Queens of the Dead embraces entrails and eyeliner in equal measure, a reminder that if this is how humanity dies, we might as well turn survival into a party.
Judge and Romero’s comedic writing is delivered perfectly by the entire cast — making lines work that probably shouldn’t — and this is yet another instance of Katy O’Brian proving that she is one of the most commanding performers currently working today. She’s predictably phenomenal, but Queens of the Dead also gives her the opportunity to flex her quieter, more vulnerable emotional muscles. As FANGORIA’s editor-in-chief Phil Nobile Jr. so correctly noted in his review, “Dre is a role that will change how you (and, one hopes, casting directors) see the actress, and could affect the trajectory of her career in an industry that otherwise might not have seen the possibilities.”
The recent wave of queer horror films have primarily focused on personal, introspective tales of horror, but this is a story about a world that wants us dead and a community that’s always at risk of being infected by it. Much like her father’s works, Tina Romero’s Queens of the Dead is packed to the brim with harsh truths that the people who need to hear it most aren’t ready for just yet, but arrives exactly when it should.