Words can be dangerous. Not just ideas or concepts, but specific words. The way they’re chosen — and weaponized — has long been a tool of the oppressor, often used to “other” already maligned groups. And while it’s easy to concede that words have power, it can often be difficult to see. 2008’s zombie-adjacent Pontypool, based on the world presented in the novel Pontypool Changes Everything, strips away the subtly to show just how infectious language can be.
Grant Mazzy (Stephen McHattie) is a washed-up shock jock with a drinking problem. His latest gig, reading news for a small local station in the middle of nowhere Canada, isn’t something he’s particularly passionate about. He’s got a bad attitude, and he makes it everyone else’s problem. While audio tech Laurel-Ann (Georgina Reilly) is amused by his antics, station manager Sydney (Lisa Houle) is absolutely not. Grant’s a wild card — an Alex Jones (or, more kindly, Don Imus) type. He’s into “taking no prisoners” and prioritizes “full disclosure” over actual reporting. It’s clear Grant feels his talents are wasted on school closings and traffic reports, instead searching for the inflammatory and salacious. Unfortunately, he gets his wish.
The weirdness in both Pontypool the town and Pontypool the film begins immediately. As Grant makes his way to the station in near-blizzard conditions, he’s approached by a strange woman. She says something, but it’s garbled. From his car he asks, “Who are you?” But the only answer he receives is his own question echoed back: “Who are you?” Grant’s still a bit shaken by the interaction when he arrives at the station, but things are already escalating. The morning show’s usual callers aren’t calling, and there are bizarre reports of riots and violent mobs popping up across town. It’s the exact kind of hard-hitting news Grant thrives on.
But as the eyewitness accounts pour in, Grant is forced to acknowledge that the very chaos he promotes has grown beyond his comprehension. Reports recount what sounds like cannibalism, attackers carrying people around in their mouths. And the mobs don’t act like regular mobs, instead repeating words and phrases as they cram themselves into buildings. When the BBC begins to cover the ruckus, Grant hears his own words, a report about Mrs. French’s missing cat Honey, parroted back at him by a roving group of “rioters.” The eerie appropriation is the first time he’s forced to consider the power of his message.
In the studio, steadfast Laurel-Ann, an Army vet, is the first to succumb to the unknown illness. As the symptoms progress, she slips from general confusion to outright violence, locking in on voices and sounds in an attempt at mimicry. When she’s unable to find what she seeks — a body to “suicide into” — she essentially self-destructs, slamming herself against the sound booth until she dies.
The epidemic spreading through Pontypool is a unique infection; not found in the air, salvia, or blood, it’s instead passed through words. And, for some reason, Grant’s words appear to be at the epicenter. While the symptoms of the outbreak are unique – cannibalistic tendencies and a desire to “get inside” their prey – the movements of the mob are akin to other zombie-esque infections. By keeping the outcomes familiar, the extraordinary causation is given room to breathe. It’s the runaway studio guest Dr. Mendez (Hrant Alianak) who solidifies both the cause — English language words — and the “science” behind it.
Dr. Mendez is able to reframe the outbreak even as he himself succumbs to it, repeating the word “breathe” over and over, seemingly against his will. Aligning with an earlier decree — in French — to stop speaking English, the doctor also suggests the infection is essentially stuck inside certain English words. And not just their repetition, but their comprehension is what allows the illness to spread. Sole survivors Grant and Sydney begin speaking broken French as the situation continues to escalate.
In the end, it’s Grant that realizes the key to disinfecting the words is changing their meaning. When Sydney gets stuck in a loop with the word “kill,” Grant guides her to a new understanding: kill is kiss. They repeat it over and over, essentially reprogramming the meaning of the word. It works, but in a world where mere comprehension is a death sentence, explaining such a concept is near impossible. And Grant dies as he rambles into the microphone, desperately trying to explain the trick — trying to undo what he, at the very least, helped cause.
It’s difficult to watch this story of killer language and not think about the dangerous rhetoric being bandied about today. Whether it be the local news or some guy’s podcast, dangerous words are put into people’s heads daily. While this type of speech has consequences, they’re not often felt by the people who plant the seed. Grant is forced to reckon with this very thing. What is his responsibility? How much of this does he own? Who, exactly, is he? A failed shock jock more concerned with “pissing people off” than reporting news to his community? Sure, Mrs. French’s cat was missing before he reported in it, but he was the one that spread the message.
As Laurel-Ann runs headfirst into the sound booth, Dr. Mendez muses that she “doesn’t have a purpose yet,” and without a purpose, she’ll just self-destruct. Both this – and the animalistic, herd-like movements of the infected – highlight the dangers of weaponizing directionless people. Grant Mazzy may be a fictitious radio personality, but his archetype is very real. In the end, he recognizes that no matter his intentions, the mob is regurgitating his words. He is the voice and thus bears some responsibility for the spread.
Pontypool reminds us just how dangerous language can be, and why we could all afford to be a bit more careful in what we bring to life. Grant may have been patient zero in Pontypool, but the truth is, it doesn’t matter who started it. Because we all have to finish it. We have to change kill into kiss, so we, as a society, can escape the self-destructive nature of our current trajectory. Words can be weapons, yes, but we can choose to harness their power differently and wield them with much more care and intention. We can bring Mrs. French’s cat home.
