Me. That’s who.
Horror movies. Creep fests. Supernatural thrillers. I hate them.
When I was young, my father and my two older sisters watched The Exorcist. And even though I didn’t see it — wasn’t allowed and didn’t want to — I do remember walking through the TV room to the bathroom and seeing the scariest sight ever.
The hair on my dad’s arm was standing up.
My dad, the guy who is supposed to protect his kids from scary things, was scared.
The sign of a good horror movie I suppose. But seeing my dad out of sorts was unnerving. It told me that me, faint of heart, should not see those kinds of things.
My sisters used to tease me about a trailer from a movie called “Beyond the Door” or something like that circa 1970 something. Back then, movie trailers were pretty tame compared to today. But this trailer with all its ghoulish voice and even the campiness, scared the crap out of me. So in the years when I shared a room with my sister, she would just say those three words “Beyond the Door” and I was done for. A sweating, scared mess under my covers until morning.
I remember the first time I “saw” a horror movie. I use “saw” lightly because, during the Friday the 13th Part 3 in 3D movie that I was duped into going to, I sat in the theater with my hands over my ears and my hooded sweatshirt down over my eyes.
I tried not to listen to the sounds of the chainsaw, the actresses screaming, as well as those screaming around me, but it was hard. A better 12-year-old would have run out of the theater screaming never to come back. But I was an impressionable 12-year-old who, even though her friends tricked her into going to the movie, didn’t want her friends to think she was chicken.
Even if she was.
So I persevered only to come out of the movie that night scared out of my wits. I didn’t even see the blood and gore, but I knew it was there. I imagined how horrible it was and that image kept me up at night for years. I mean YEARS. I vowed then and there I would most certainly rather be called a chicken than have to sit through another horrible horror movie.
Looking back, perhaps if I had seen it and analyzed it for what it was — a dumb movie with a stupid theme and bad acting — it may not have bothered me. But I didn’t and don’t even care to today.
I just can’t get beyond the blood.
All I can say is that I feel lucky not to be a kid today with the caliber of the horror movies out there. The ones that are so real and creepy and with themes that you are dumbfounded that there could be a screenwriter who thought up such and insanely scary story.
Even though I haven’t and won’t see any of them, I know they are there. They are different from the Friday the 13th, Halloween and other slasher movies. Movies like Blair Witch to Saw to Paranormal Activity. Yikes. Just the names send me running.
I don’t have the stomach for the gore, the creepiness, the sinister themes. Call me Pollyanna again if you will. Scary is not for me. And those movies are scare-y!
So with that said, I just want to wish my friend Jane, who is at the Toronto Film Festival’s screening of her company’s new horror movie, Lovely Molly, a big gorey bag of good luck!
Jane, you are a dear friend and I am proud of you. But I won’t see your film, you can be darn sure of that. I am cheering you on along the way, though.
I hope it wins lots of awards! And I hope it scares the pants off of everyone.
Everyone but me.