If you know me, you know I watch a lot of movies. And if you know me really well, you know I watch A LOT of horror movies (as in, 50 in the month of October alone). This week, I finally got around to watching Pontypool, an excellent 2008 Canadian horror film based on the novel Pontypool Changes Everything by Tony Burgess. I haven’t read the book, but the movie plays out like a modern The War of the Worlds, taking place almost entirely inside of a radio station’s DJ booth. The DJ, Grant Mazzy, is the narrator both for us in the audience as well as the residents of the small Ontarian town of Pontypool. From his booth, DJ Mazzy reports on a supposed viral outbreak that is apparently turning local residents into flesh-eating zombies. [Stop reading if you don’t want spoilers]
It’s a familiar story (zombies, pandemics, etc.), but the twist here lies in the nature of the virus itself. In Pontypool, the virus is not transmitted through blood, contact, or air, but rather through language. Specifically, infected words within the English language. And very specifically, one must understand the English words to become infected, not just hear them. Terms of endearment and “baby talk” —words that are deeply embedded within close social ties— appear to be the most contagious. Ultimately, the cure for the virus lies in “un-understanding” the infected words by rendering them meaningless. (Remember this bit from Friends?)
[Sidenote: Tony Burgess is an Anglophone Ontarian writer and while I don’t know his intentions in the screenplay, one interpretation of the virus’s source is as a weapon utilized by Québec separatists, as suggested by a BBC character in the film. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the Québec provincial police –not the federal (and bilingual) RCMP– respond to the outbreak in Pontypool. At the very least, there is some interesting Canadian subtext here about French vs. English and Québec vs. Ontario.]
I found this fascinating. I had never seen language used in the context of a horror trope. And this was 2008, still early in our cultural conversation about online hate speech as a contagion, for example. For a film with a simple narrative structure, Pontypool can be a complex read, taking you (ok, me) down paths of communication, culture, and identity. I reflected on my own experience as an Anglophone raised by non-native speakers, and who struggles greatly with foreign languages. If I were in Pontypool, I’d be a zombie for sure, infected by my only language. But what about the rest of my family? My husband (after mourning my zombification) would survive in French. My parents would be able to survive with their respective language communities but not with each other.
But it also made me wonder how much meaning is truly shared in a given language. As an American living in Europe, I’m frequently baffled by British-isms. Growing up, my family necessarily defaulted to a smaller set of words when communicating with each other, which constructed a sort of “family language” that didn’t entirely translate to outsiders. I remember the embarrassment of being corrected by classmates and teachers for misusing and mispronouncing English words that seemed normal at home. And my entire relationship with my husband has existed in English - his second language. How often do we talk past each other, simply because the same words hold multitudes of meaning? How will it change when we are living in his French-speaking homeland? While I’m curious to find out, I have definitely stepped up my French practice…just in case there are zombies.