“C’mon, watch Halloween with me,” says Jim. “I know you will like it.”
“Can’t we just watch Young Frankenstein?” I say, knowing that I won’t.
My Suspension of Disbelief is sitting in the corner shaking his ragged little head in warning – still pissed off from the last time Jim convinced us to watch one of his ‘classic’ movies.
I love Jim and all his quirkiness. He is one of the most sweetly nostalgic souls I know – always remembering people and places and things way better than they actually were.
This is particularly true when it comes to movies.
“Michael?” the parents say as the cherubic boy removes his mask, a dripping dagger in one tiny fist.
Barely ten minutes into this and I glance over to see my Suspension of Disbelief cussing up a blue streak and banging his bloody little head against the wall.
I can count on one disembodied hand how many times a movie actually scared me.
Nightmare Elm Street. More stupid than scary, yes. But the scene where Freddy’s arms stretch wayyyyy out in an alley and scrape against the walls? That got me. Couldn’t sleep.
Silence of the Lambs. Hannibal's voice haunted my dreams weeks after.
And more recently Ju-on, which is the original (and way better) Japanese version of The Grudge. This movie taught me that there is nothing more frightening than a cold, dead Asian chick under your covers.
Stupid walks into a neighbor’s dark house after being stalked by a creepy masked stranger all day.
Stupid doesn’t turn on any of the lights.
Stupid assumes that the creepy masked stranger - who has already killed three of your stupid horny friends - is dead after poking him in the forehead with a knitting needle.
Stupid leaves children alone to barricade herself in a closet.
Stupid assumes that the creepy masked stranger is dead after poking him in the forehead with a bent wire hanger.
Stupid turns her back on creepy masked stranger, who is on the floor pretending to be not dead. Or something.
I can't remember.
It was after the second or third time Michael is 'dead' when I glance over to see my defeated little Suspension of Disbelief kick the tiny stool out from under his tiny feet, a tiny noose around his tiny snapped neck.
I turn to sweet, nostalgic Jim - oblivious to his complicity in this sad crime - and fight the urge to stab him in the forehead with a knitting needle. Or a wire hanger.
Scary isn’t about a well-timed “BOO!” from behind the couch, oh no.
Scary is smart. Scary is psychological.
Scary gets in your head and whispers your worst fear.
Scary never shows you the Really Scary Thing, only its shadow.
Scary slips its cold dead hand around your ankle as you’re crawling into bed alone in the middle of the night.
The movie ends. Michael is gone.
We’ve been asked to believe that he’s dead from knitting needles and wire hangers, but not dead from falling out of a second story window after taking multiple gunshot wounds to his torso.
Not scary. Stupid.
I am listening to: Office noises
I am reading: Winning by Jack Welch
And I am: Irritated
2 hours ago