Oh, the Horror

Other than the fifteen minutes it took my parents to realize that perhaps a near-porn drive-in movie called Blood Sucking Freaks (renamed fromThe Incredible Torture Show for it’s 1980s rerelease) wasn’t the best choice for an evening of fine family fun, my first horror movie was 1983’s Dennis Quaid classic Jaws 3D. Sitting just a few rows back against the far left wall of the theater, Mom’s hand resting on the corner of my seat to keep it from folding up suddenly, I munched away on popcorn in anticipation of my first scary movie, let alone in 3D! With the opening sequence, as I struggled to see over the seats in front of me, white cardboard 3D glasses hanging low on my nose, digging into the back of my ears, I took in all of the deep Sea World goodness. In no time I had the drill down, when you hear the Jaws theme, rip the glasses from your face and look away…put them back on when the music stops. Repeat. Did no one make it clear closing my eyes would accomplish the same thing? So much easier and, more importantly, it would have saved precious snack time. Nonetheless by the last wilted kernel, being a six year old without a finely honed sense of horror, I might have been the only one leaving the theater who viewed Jaws 3D as promised: “Reaching new depths of terror.” With that summer evening, amongst the rubble left adrift inJaws 3D’s wake, surfaced a lifelong horror movie enthusiast.

As a pre-teen horror film aficionado, what I considered to be scary was all relative to what I was allowed to watch, aka what Mom would rent. Staunchly against anything “that could really happen”, she was fond of pushing monster movies, supernatural thrillers, and ghost stories on this burgeoning heathen. Poltergeist (1982), The Stuff (1985), Troll (1986), and Dolls (1987) were among the “Kid tested, Mother approved” horror pile while popular slasher flix of the 1980s would have to wait…that is until A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (1987), my preamble to Freddy Krueger. Yes, some friends of mine were allowed to rent Freddy’s latest installment so, after an hour of begging interspersed with promises I’d sleep in my own room no matter what, my parents finally relented. Of course, afterward I was terrified and cried to sleep in my parent’s room insisting my doll house was just a little too reminiscent of Freddy’s, to no avail. Behind an hour of whimpering, I finally fell asleep only to be awoken by heavy breathing and the low hum of my name being whispered. I freaked! Apparently, Dad had moved the stereo speakers just outside my bedroom door using a mic to amplify his voice. I wasn’t amused. Still, it was all part of the experience; the thrills that linger, that make you look over your shoulder and laugh later, much, much, later, at your paranoia.

But loving horror movies and being technically a kid were difficult to rectify in the cinematic world run by ratings. Regardless of what the Motion Picture Association deemed acceptable, by my estimation twelve was plenty old enough to pass for the seventeen required for an R movie. With that in mind, I set my sites on the theatrical release of Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. My hair in the patented late-80s poof and a coat of high-gloss makeup, I gallantly strolled to the ticket booth, “One for Pet Sematary” to which the attendant wisely asked “What year were you born?” Damn. I can’t help feeling if I were faster at math the embarrassment of that moment could have been avoided. Perhaps even as a mature twelve the baby face was a tell and, for the moment, I’d have to accept R movies weren’t yet feasible…at least in the theater. In the meantime I opted to get my horror fix the old fashioned way, on the rental circuit, which, by thirteen, was open to anything save for gratuitous nudity. That same year, I ventured into the realm psychological thrillers with the VHS release of Flatliners (1990). During the hours I spent watching that video Mom would periodically stroll through muttering, “You know this isn’t real, right? I don’t want to see you trying to kill yourself thinking you’ll be brought back.” With increasing frustration and a tiny-eyed scowl I’d grumble, “God, I know Mom.”

What was so wearisome then has developed into the memories that sustain my love for the horror genre. Even though I’m now comfortably settled into my early thirties, wistfully free of Mom’s daily commentary, I’ve managed to incorporate horror movie components wherever they fit like…a poster of the little-know slasher flick Happy Birthday to Me (1981) in the kitchen. Where else would you put a poster of a skewer through someone’s face? It’s just common sense. And including horror films as required viewing throughout the year, not just a Halloween tradition though I love me some Halloween (1978), Trick or Treats (1982) and Trick or Treat (2007)…yes, they are two distinct movies. For Christmas, the family gathers for Black Christmas (the 1974 original, I don’t even want to hear about the 2006 remake, bleh), Christmas Evil (1980) and Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984) movie marathon. Of course, Mom has to walk in just as the half-naked girl is being impaled on a deer head, “Nice. That’s really in keeping with the holiday spirit.” On New Year’s Eve, it’s time for our yearly presentation of New Year’s Evil (1980) featuring the only slasher conscientious enough to share his keen knowledge of time zones. Then, instead of chocolates, roses and expensive restaurants, Michael and I opt for My Bloody Valentine (1981) (here the 2009 remake is allowable though never a substitute) and Valentine (2001) for our Valentine’s Day celebration.

There’s a reason Ghostface’s query “What’s your favorite scary movie?” (Scream, 1996) struck a cord. It’s because whether or not you consider yourself to be a horror fan, everyone has a favorite scary movie. Regardless of if you’re partial to slasher flicks or ghost stories, psychological thrillers or classic monsters, there’s something for everyone. No other genre can do this. No other genre transcends age, gender and sociological barriers or incites more slumber party chatter and date night embraces than horror. At their core, horror films are escapism, speculation lurking in unlikely occurrences. Of course, some scenarios could happen but you turn off the television or leave the theater and it didn’t. That’s the terror experience, sitting bundled up with my cousins, over a warm bowl of “cheese stuff” (that’s 10 year old speak for queso) Shocker (1989) blaring from the television, my sisters ripping my arms from their sockets amidst a packed theater screaming it’s way through Jurassic Park (1993) or haggling with theater personnel over allowing my then 9 year old brother to see Scream 3 (2000). Who carries guardianship papers to a movie? Some of my most cherished moments were created over a horror movie. For me, they’re not about creating panic or catering to gorehounds, obviously they can do these things, but that’s not what they’re about. They’re about tradition, creating memories. They’re the one place I’m still 6 years old, clinging to my Mom’s hand in anticipation of our next venture, always hopeful…never fearful.

Advertisement