One of the most striking sociopolitical readings of I, Zombie lies in its implicit parallel to the AIDS crisis, which loomed large in the collective consciousness of the 1980s and 1990s. Mark’s infection, transmitted through a bite, mirrors the fear of contagion that defined public discourse around HIV/AIDS during this period. The film’s release in 1998 places it in the aftermath of the epidemic’s peak in the UK, when misinformation, moral panic, and government inaction had left a lasting scar on marginalized communities, particularly gay men and intravenous drug users. Mark’s gradual decay—open sores, seizures, and a body that betrays him—echoes the physical toll of AIDS, while his self-imposed isolation reflects the social ostracism faced by those diagnosed. Unlike the mindless zombies of mainstream horror, Mark retains his consciousness, wrestling with the ethical implications of his need to feed on human flesh. This internal conflict amplifies the film’s resonance as a metaphor for living with a stigmatized illness, where survival demands actions that society deems monstrous.

Evidence of this allegory permeates the narrative. Mark’s decision to abandon his girlfriend and hide away in a decrepit flat suggests a self-exile born of shame and fear of judgment—emotions that AIDS patients often articulated in personal accounts from the era. The documentary-style interviews with Sarah, who speaks of Mark in the past tense, underscore his erasure from her life, a poignant reflection of how society distanced itself from the infected. Parkinson’s choice to frame Mark’s transformation as a slow, agonizing process rather than an instantaneous change further aligns with the chronic nature of AIDS, contrasting with the rapid zombie turnarounds of films like Night of the Living Dead (1968). This deliberate pacing invites viewers to empathize with Mark’s suffering, challenging the dehumanization that characterized public attitudes toward AIDS victims. In this light, I, Zombie becomes a critique of a society that abandons its afflicted, leaving them to fend for themselves in the shadows.

The film’s sociopolitical critique extends beyond disease to reflect the lingering effects of Thatcherism on British society. By the late 1990s, the UK was grappling with the fallout of Margaret Thatcher’s policies—privatization, deregulation, and the dismantling of social safety nets—which had widened inequality and fostered a culture of individualism. Mark’s solitary existence in a dilapidated flat, surrounded by peeling walls and sparse furnishings, serves as a visual metaphor for the economic and social decay that afflicted working-class and marginalized communities in post-industrial Britain. The film’s low-budget aesthetic, born of necessity, enhances this reading: the grainy 16mm stock and unpolished production values evoke a sense of gritty realism, grounding Mark’s plight in a recognizable, neglected urban landscape.

Mark’s isolation is not just physical but existential, mirroring the atomization of society under Thatcher’s mantra of "there is no such thing as society." His inability to return to his previous life—marked by his relationship with Sarah and his academic pursuits—parallels the loss of community and opportunity for those left behind by economic restructuring. The absence of any external intervention—no doctors, no authorities, no collective resistance—underscores a sociopolitical reality where the state offers no support, and survival becomes an individual burden. When Mark resorts to killing to sustain himself, it can be read as a desperate act of self-preservation in a system that has forsaken him, a grim commentary on the survivalist ethos of neoliberalism. Parkinson, who wrote, directed, produced, and scored the film with minimal resources, embodies this DIY spirit, yet his narrative indicts the conditions that necessitate such independence.

Mark’s transformation into a zombie also positions him as a symbol of the "other," a figure long used in horror to explore societal fears of difference. In the context of 1990s Britain, this otherness aligns with class-based marginalization and the vilification of the underclass. The zombie, traditionally a mindless consumer of flesh, here becomes a sentient being aware of his monstrosity, a twist that invites sympathy rather than revulsion. Mark’s academic background as a PhD student contrasts sharply with his descent into a primal, flesh-eating state, suggesting a fall from middle-class respectability into the abject poverty and moral ambiguity associated with the working poor or unemployed. This trajectory reflects anxieties about social mobility—or its absence—in a Britain still reeling from deindustrialization and the erosion of the welfare state.

The film’s focus on Mark’s psychological torment, documented through his notes and recordings, humanizes the zombie in a way that challenges the genre’s norms. His reluctance to kill, coupled with his attempts to maintain some semblance of dignity (e.g., applying makeup to mask his decay), highlights a struggle to retain identity against a dehumanizing force. This can be interpreted as a critique of how society strips agency from those it deems undesirable—whether through poverty, illness, or nonconformity. The sparse gore, often cited as a weakness by horror fans, serves a purpose here: by minimizing visceral shocks, Parkinson foregrounds Mark’s internal collapse, aligning the film with social realism as much as horror. The result is a portrait of the zombie as a marginalized figure, excluded from the social contract and forced to navigate a world that has no place for him.

The inclusion of Sarah’s interviews introduces a gendered dimension to the sociopolitical analysis. As Mark’s ex-girlfriend, she represents a normative femininity that moves on from his affliction, marrying and building a new life while he deteriorates. Her detachment, while emotionally understandable, reinforces Mark’s isolation and subtly critiques the gendered expectations of caregiving. In a society that historically placed the burden of support on women, Sarah’s choice to prioritize her own future over Mark’s suffering could be seen as a rejection of traditional roles—a progressive stance—but it also amplifies his abandonment. This dynamic reflects broader tensions in 1990s Britain, where feminist gains coexisted with a retrenchment of social support, leaving individuals like Mark doubly vulnerable.

Sarah’s narrative, however, feels underdeveloped, a flaw that weakens its potential as a counterpoint. Her interviews, while providing context, lack depth, reducing her to a passive observer rather than an active participant in the critique. This imbalance suggests a missed opportunity to explore how gender intersects with class and illness in Parkinson’s vision, though it does not wholly undermine the film’s sociopolitical weight.