Tina Romero’s “Queens of the Dead” puts a queer, campy, and wildly hopeful spin on the zombie genre, bringing sparkle to the apocalypse.
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MORBID MINI: Tina Romero trades classic zombie nihilism for queer joy, found family, and unapologetic optimism in a campy horror-comedy that proves survival means more than simply staying alive.
“This is not a George Romero movie.”
Not every queer genre film has to be about trauma, bigotry, and the horror of othering. Sometimes, it can simply be a campy, chaotic carnival that doubles as a love letter to community, culture, and maintaining your sparkle while the world falls apart.
Of course, monsters have always been metaphors. And filmmakers have always used genre elements to reflect humanity’s worst tendencies back at us.
Godzilla was atomic trauma made flesh. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre captured a nation rotting under economic anxiety and industrial cruelty. And Rosemary’s Baby transformed fears of bodily autonomy and institutional betrayal into a waking nightmare.
Few monsters have been so consistently used to reflect human horror as zombies.
From Dawn of the Dead’s consumerist satire to Train to Busan’s examination of class division, the undead have evolved alongside our fears for decades.
And, of course, Night of the Living Dead changed everything.
George A. Romero’s influential masterpiece remains one of the genre’s most seismic works, confronting racial tensions and the fragility of social order during one of the most turbulent periods in American history. Now, the Godfather of the Dead’s daughter, Tina Romero, is following in the footsteps of the legendary horror pioneer.
But she’s marching to her own, very different beat.
Tina Romero’s Queens of the Dead is a hilarious, tender-hearted queer horror-comedy that struts where other zombie films shamble.
The story unfolds over a single night in Brooklyn, where a massive zombie outbreak erupts just as an eclectic crowd gathers at YUM, a Bushwick nightclub preparing to host a major drag showcase.
When the brain-hungry undead breach the venue, the club’s performers, patrons, and staff are forced to barricade themselves inside.
Led by Sam (Jaquel Spivey, Mean Girls), a traumatized performer making a reluctant stage comeback, and the fierce club headliner Yasmine (Dominique Jackson), the group must put aside their internal drama and interpersonal rivalries, banding together to fight their way through the apocalypse.
Unlike the many zombie films her father’s magnum opus has inspired, Queens of the Dead isn’t concerned with nihilism and the horrors of survival.
Instead, Romero gives us something we rarely see in genre films: aggressive optimism.
Where classic zombie narratives use the apocalypse to show humanity tearing itself apart through tribalism, Queens of the Dead positions a marginalized community’s camaraderie as its ultimate shield.
The film joyfully kicks tired tropes to the curb, letting its queer characters be fully realized and more than capable of taking center stage in their own story.
The narrative argues that protecting the space to create, perform, and find joy is just as vital to survival as scavenging for weapons. Because, ultimately, what are we fighting to survive if we lose the heart and soul of humanity?
Queens of the Dead prioritizes joy, humor, and popcorn entertainment over high-stakes horror or bleak social commentary.
But that doesn’t mean this campy good time lacks something to say.
While George A. Romero famously used the undead to critique racism, the Vietnam War, and consumerism, Tina Romero turns her sights toward the digital age. The zombies in the film are heavily stylized, sporting silver skin tones that resemble a glam version of the ghouls in Dawn of the Dead. However, their defining trait is their attachment to technology.
The undead stumble through Brooklyn still gripping their smartphones, mindlessly livestreaming and chasing clout. The film uses this to deliver a playful satire on modern influencer culture, equating the mindless consumption of social media validation to literal, brain-dead conformity.
But don’t expect the commentary to dominate the narrative. This is far more Shaun of the Dead than Dawn of the Dead.
It’s a lighthearted, crowd-pleasing midnight movie with a stacked cast, sharp wit, and hordes of riotous fun, including a wild third act that features a show-stopping musical number.
The talented ensemble of actors, drag performers, and comedians is top-tier and fully locked in.
This includes the incomparable Margaret Cho, Riki Lindhome, Nina West, and a magnetic Katy O’Brien (Love Lies Bleeding). There’s also a pretty fantastic cameo from Tom Savini as a smarmy mayor.
I won’t ruin the ending, but it’s pitch-perfect and oh-so-satisfying.
A beautiful celebration of friendship, courage, and refusing to let your inner light dim.
And this line is an all-timer:
“Don’t you know the situation we’re in? It’s life or death.”
“It’s both. It’s always both.”
The film’s uneven balance of comedy to genre thrills won’t satisfy hardcore gore-hounds and horror purists. It’s far more sweet than savage, mostly bloodless, and lacks the cynical bite of classic survival cinema.
But as a colorful, wonderfully hopeful tribute to found family, the LGBTQ+ community, and the spirit of inclusiveness, it’s a damn delight. I was consistently laughing, kicking my feet, and smiling ear to ear.
It’s wild and something quite special when a zombie film gives you hope for humanity.
Tune in if you need a break from bleak cynicism and existential dread, and you’re ready for a joyful zombie comedy where marginalized communities get to be the heroes of the apocalypse.
Overall Rating (Out of 5 Butterflies): 4
