Jasi Lanier
Jasi Lanier

Jasi Lanier, The Walking Dead's "Stunt Zombie"

Jasi Lanier
Jasi Lanier

For as long as Sallie Mae has been loaning money to college students, entrepreneurial graduates have been concocting new and innovative ways to get their debt paid off. For USC Media Arts alum Jasi Lanier, the solution was simple: fire-eating for dollars. 

The Pittsburgh native acted and modeled as well, and served as the inspiration for a number of romance novel covers and comics, even playing muse to artist Joe Jusko for his work on the Tomb Raider series. (Take that, Angelina Jolie!) But Lanier’s taste for danger eventually overpowered her desire to stand still in front of the camera. Inspired by Dusty Russell (a.k.a. Dusty from Dallas), her uncle and a well-known daredevil in the 1960s, and some articles she had read about professional stuntwomen in Femme Fatales magazine, Lanier decided that it was time to kick ass for a living. Literally.

Now more than a decade into her career, Lanier has amassed nearly 50 stunt credits in films such as Identify Thief, Sinister, and Alice in Wonderland, and become a regular player on the small screen, from iCarly to Criminal Minds. She has also appeared in several episodes of The Walking Dead, where she holds the fascinating title of “stunt zombie.”

Just ahead of The Walking Dead’s fourth-season debut, we spoke with Lanier about getting started in the stunt game, the great men-versus-women in Hollywood debate, and exactly what it takes to become a “walker” on AMC’s mega-hit series.

How does one go about becoming a stuntwoman?
It is different for everyone in how they come into the business; there is no one set way. I moved to California and did whatever I could to get on sets—background work, stand-in, PA. I would ask stunt people questions. I got my SAG card and was invited to [famed stuntman] Bob Yerkes’ backyard. [Stunt coordinator] John Moio saw me sword fighting and got me my first gig doubling Nathan Kress on iCarly for the “iFence” episode.

What sort of training is involved and where do you get it?
Training is endless in stunts: gymnastics, fights, weapons, bikes, cars, scuba, horses, wirework, and fire. There isn’t one place to get training for stunts. Much of the best training is invitation only. [It’s] tough to get into, but worth every minute of it. 

What are your specialties?
I don't know if I have a specialty. I try to be an all-around stuntwoman and am always looking to broaden my skills. 

What are the skills that are most in demand for film and television today?
It depends on the show. Hitting the ground, fights, and car work are always on the top of the list.

What role does fear play in your professional life on a daily basis?
You are overcoming your fears for sure, whether it be heights, fire, etc.

Like in so many sectors of the entertainment industry, women are the minority in the stunt world. What’s the biggest challenge of being a female stunt person?
The biggest challenge is that 95 percent of the jobs are still for men … and there are more stuntwomen than ever, so the competition is tough. Secondly, our wardrobe doesn’t often allow for pads like men, so we definitely take some pretty hard bumps.

How did you get involved with The Walking Dead?
I met the stunt coordinator, Russell Towery, and gratefully got called to work.

So far you’ve worked on three episodes of the show, where you’ve served as a “stunt zombie.” What exactly does that entail?
What it entails is three hours in the makeup chair and nailing your zombie walk/movement.

What’s your most memorable moment or scene from the series?
My most memorable was from this season. [But] I signed a non-disclosure, so I cannot discuss it until it airs.

What’s the one stunt you have yet to perform on-screen but are dying to do?
I really look forward to doing car crashes and flips.

What’s up next for you?
Up next is stunts on Fast & Furious 7, stunt acting on the horror flick Convergence, and more mayhem on the Nickelodeon show Sam & Cat.

Matthew Simmons/Getty Images
How Accurate are Hollywood Medical Dramas? A Doctor Breaks It Down
Matthew Simmons/Getty Images
Matthew Simmons/Getty Images

Medical dramas like Grey's Anatomy get a lot of things wrong when it comes to the procedures shown on the screen, but unless you're a doctor, you'd probably never notice.

For its latest installment, WIRED's Technique Critique video series—which previously blessed us with a dialect coach's critique of actors' onscreen accents—tackled the accuracy of medical scenes in movies and TV, bringing in Annie Onishi, a general surgery resident at Columbia University, to comment on emergency room and operating scenes from Pulp Fiction, House, Scrubs, and more.

While Onishi breaks down just how inaccurate these shows and movies can be, she makes it clear that Hollywood doesn't always get it wrong. Some shows, including Showtime's historical drama The Knick, garner praise from Onishi for being true-to-life with their medical jargon and operations. And when doctors discuss what music to play during surgery on Scrubs? That's "a tale as old as time in the O.R.," according to Onishi.

Other tropes are very obviously ridiculous, like slapping a patient during CPR and telling them to fight, which we see in a scene from The Abyss. "Rule number one of CPR is: never stop effective chest compressions in order to slap or yell words of encouragement at the patient," Onishi says. "Yelling at a patient or cheering them on has never brought them back to life." And obviously, taking selfies in the operating room in the middle of a grisly operation like the doctors on Grey's Anatomy do would get you fired in real life.

There are plenty of cliché words and phrases we hear over and over on doctor shows, and some are more accurate than others. Asking about a patient's vitals is authentic, according to Onishi, who says it's something doctors are always concerned with. However, yelling "We're losing him!" is simply for added TV drama. "I have never once heard that in my real life," Onishi says.

[h/t WIRED]

When The Day After Terrorized 100 Million Viewers With a Vision of Nuclear War

Before Nicholas Meyer's made-for-television film The Day After had its official airing on November 20, 1983, then-President Ronald Reagan and his Joint Chiefs of Staff were given screening copies. In his diary, Reagan recorded his reaction to seeing Meyer's graphic depiction of a nuclear holocaust that devastates a small Kansas town, writing:

"It's very effective and left me greatly depressed. So far they [ABC] haven't sold any of the 25 spot ads scheduled and I can see why. Whether it will be of help to the 'anti-nukes' or not, I can't say. My own reaction was one of our having to do all we can to have a deterrent and to see there is never a nuclear war."

Just a few days later, the rest of America would see what had shaken their president. Preempting Hardcastle and McCormick on ABC, the 8 p.m. telefilm drew a staggering 100 million viewers, an audience that at the time was second only in non-sports programming to the series finale of M*A*S*H. According to Nielsen, 62 percent of all televisions in use that night were tuned in.

What they watched didn't really qualify as entertainment; Meyer stated he had no desire to make a "good" movie with stirring performances or rousing music, but a deeply affecting public service announcement on the horrors of a nuclear fallout. He succeeded … perhaps a little too well.


The idea for The Day After came from ABC executive Brandon Stoddard, who had helped popularize the miniseries format with Roots. After seeing The China Syndrome, a film about a nuclear accident starring Jane Fonda, Stoddard began pursuing an "event" series about what would happen to a small town in middle America if tensions between the Soviet Union and the United States escalated to catastrophic levels. Films like Dr. Strangelove had depicted moments between politicians debating whether to use powerful weapons of mass destruction, but few had examined what the consequences would be for the everyday population.


Reagan had dubbed the Soviet Union "the evil empire" in 1982, so the time seemed right to bring such a project to TV viewers. Stoddard hired Barnaby Jones writer Edward Hume to craft a script: Hume drew from research conducted into the effects of nuclear war and radiation fallout, including a 1978 government report, The Effects of Nuclear War, that contained a fictionalized examination of how a strike would play out in a densely populated area. Stoddard also enlisted Meyer, who had proven his directorial chops with Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, but considered the assignment a "civic responsibility" more than a creative endeavor.

Meyer and the film's producers selected Lawrence, Kansas (pop. 50,000) as the setting for the movie and got permission from city officials to turn their town into a post-apocalyptic landscape. Throughout the summer of 1982, tons of ash, dirt, and rubble were trucked in and spread over the ground; food coloring blackened farming crops. Thousands of locals were enlisted to portray victims of a nuclear attack, agreeing to roll in dirt and have their hair shaved off to simulate a miserable death via radiation poisoning.

Meyer believed that setting the film in a small town would make it more impactful and relatable to audiences. "Other movies that had attempted to deal with the subject of nuclear holocaust had always been set in big cities," he recalled in 2003. "But a great number of people in the United States do not live in big cities, so they were witnessing an event that seemed to bear scant relation to them."

That pursuit of realism wasn't always to the network's benefit. ABC originally planned a four-hour film to run on two consecutive nights, but filling up that much commercial time proved to be a challenge. Fearing a graphic and partisan display of anti-nuclear propaganda, many loyal advertisers refused to let their spots air during The Day After. (Meyer later joked that all the "generals" pulled out, including General Mills and General Foods.) They were ultimately able to sell a little over 10 minutes of commercial time, which prompted executives to condense the movie to a two-hour presentation. Meyer, who thought the script was padded to begin with, agreed with the decision.

ABC sensed that the film would be provocative and took unprecedented steps to handle the inevitable viewer response. A 1-800 number was set up to field calls from people concerned about an actual nuclear disaster; the network also issued pamphlets that acted as viewing guides, with fact sheets on nuclear weapons. Psychologists warned audiences would experience "feelings of depression and helplessness." Meyer was, in effect, making a disaster movie with the characters being offered no help of rescue. The film had been openly endorsed by anti-nuclear organizations as being a $7 million advertisement for their stance, and some TV industry observers wondered whether ABC would even air it at all.


Prior to The Day After's November 20 debut, actor John Cullum appeared onscreen and delivered a warning. Calling the film "unusually disturbing," he advised young children to be led away from the television and for parents to be prepared to field questions older kids might have.

A still from 'The Day After' (1983)

With that, The Day After commenced. It was every bit as terrifying as viewers had been told it would be. For the first 50 minutes or so, actors like Jason Robards, John Lithgow, and Steve Guttenberg established their characters in Lawrence, largely oblivious to an incident on the border of East Germany that triggered an armed response from both Russia and the U.S. As missiles fell, a mushroom cloud vaporized the community; those who survived were doomed to brief and miserable lives as radiation destroyed their bodies.

Dramatizing what had previously been a sterile discussion about nuclear defenses had its intended effect. Viewers shuffled away from their televisions in a daze, struck by the bleak consequences of an attack. The people of Lawrence, who had a private screening, were particularly affected—it was their town that appeared destroyed. Residents exited the theater crying.

What ABC lacked in ad revenue it more than made up for in ratings. The mammoth audience was comparable to Super Bowl viewership; the network even presented a post-"game" show of sorts, with Ted Koppel hosting a roundtable discussion of the nuclear threat featuring Carl Sagan and William F. Buckley. Sagan is believed to have coined the term "nuclear winter" on the program, while Secretary of State George Shultz argued the necessity of harboring nuclear weapons to make sure the nation could protect itself.

The experience stuck with Reagan, who signed a nuclear arms treaty—the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces, or INF, Treaty—with Mikhail Gorbachev in 1987, leading to longstanding speculation that The Day After may have helped sober political attitudes toward mutually assured destruction.


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