ZOMBILLENIUM. Parable About Misunderstanding

Little Lucie has had an uphill battle all her life. She lost her mother before she even had a chance to really know her. Her relationship with her father isn’t the easiest either — it’s limited to a few minutes a week during school drop-offs and pick-ups. Hector is a preoccupied and somewhat nosy workplace inspector. We first meet the two of them as they drive together in a car. Lucie timidly suggests they spend some time together — perhaps visit the amusement park advertised on billboards, “Zombillenium.”

Hector doesn’t even register his daughter’s suggestion; he stops the car in front of the school gate. The girl gets out, “bye-bye, au revoir,” they say their goodbyes without even looking each other in the eye. See you in the afterlife. Not long after, Hector ends up in “Zombillenium.” And he’ll be stuck there forever.

Difficult family relationships, a lack of understanding, and the still-fresh wound of losing a loved one are one part of the story. The animated film by Arthur de Pins and Alexis Ducord devotes just as much attention to the titular place, which is plagued by its own internal problems. Its inhabitants are fascinating beings — not costumed performers or circus clowns, but real zombies, werewolves, vampires, skeletons, witches, and mummies. “Zombillenium” is both a refuge and a grueling workplace for them. The creators highlight two main problems, both stemming from the park’s dire financial situation.

The first unfolds on a meta level. Despite their great potential to scare, the team of monsters doesn’t quite know how to frighten the few tourists who visit. The only one drawing any real attention — mostly from teenage girls — is Steven the vampire (an obvious nod to Edward from Twilight). The joke, of course, lies in the evolution that the once-noble horror genre has undergone. Once upon a time, its main characters were physically repulsive, deformed, and grotesque — creatures that inspired disgust. Now, only heroes with idealized, model-like appearances can achieve popularity. Horror and terror are no longer the main currency; they’ve been replaced by sex appeal and eroticism. The artifacts and symbols of classic horror cinema seem, sadly, to be fading away.

The second problem — the park’s looming bankruptcy — has a much more tangible and painful dimension. The park’s director, Francis, must regularly report his poor results to the owner — none other than the Devil himself. During their teleconferences, the terrified Francis watches as the computer screen bursts into flames, shielding his face from the inferno. It’s a striking metaphor that captures both the owner’s rage and ruthless nature. After each conversation, the secretary enters the room to replace the computer screen destroyed by the hellish exchange.

The Devil cares only about financial results. It doesn’t matter what the cost is — the numbers in the Excel sheets must add up. What he doesn’t realize is that the real obstacle isn’t a lack of attractions but the social and ethnic divisions that have formed within “Zombillenium.” In the park’s visible areas, only a handful of monsters can be seen. The deeper underground you go, the more hidden and frightened beings you find. At the very bottom lies a massive rotating wheel — the park’s energy source — powered by the muscle of the condemned workers. It’s a bleak world, one that only a revolution can save.

All these threads are elegantly tied together by the figure of Hector. His main motivation is to save and rebuild his relationship with his daughter. His only chance to reconnect with her is by making the park — not exactly known for its good reputation — a place worth visiting. Hector becomes the catalyst and architect of change, equipped with the necessary know-how. “Zombillenium” begins to thrive, lines form at the gates, and the class divisions among the workers slowly fade. Day by day, Hector becomes more aware of how much he neglected as a father — and, more importantly, how he can make amends in his daughter’s eyes.

Ultimately, Zombillenium is an intriguing reflection on the transformation of classic horror. It’s also a parable about misunderstanding and attempts at mediation between workers and employers — and a story about the strengthening of family bonds. Through it all, it’s hard not to root for the dynamic Hector, who truly comes to life only after death — just like many a monster from the golden age of horror cinema before him.