two of the moving pictures.
After instinctively scanning through all the channels three or four times, I’m forced to choose between an infomercial trying to sell me a vibrating abdominal belt and a horror movie called The Mothman Prophecies . Considering that my popcorn was gone in five minutes and I’ve moved on to a bowl of cheese curds, I stay on the infomercial for only a few minutes. I’d love to actually meet these actors. Get inside their heads. Find out what motivates them. Do these infomercial spots figure into their childhood dreams and aspirations? Or are they aware of their inherent ridiculousness?
I flip the channel over to The Mothman Prophecies . I remember hearing about this film a few years ago — it’s adapted from a novel of the same name and generated substantial buzz. I scan the information on the satellite guide. The movie is set in a small West Virginia town where a reporter from Washington, D.C., investigates several strange encounters, unusual sightings, and mysterious phone calls. It’s believed that a large supernatural moth-like creature is responsible for the chaos. I haven’t seen a good horror movie in a while.
My introduction to horror films started early, when I was a wide-eyed seven-year-old. I remember sneaking out of bed and furtively crawling down the carpeted hall on my forearms and knees like a Navy Seal. Using the screams as my compass, I would converge on my older brother and a group of his teenage pals, slung over the couches in our TV room. It was the golden era of the horror genre. Fans had the luxury of choosing from a wide range of villains, the likes of which had never been seen before. There was the dream-invading Freddy Krueger, the machete-wielding Jason Voorhees, the demented Michael Myers, and even that homicidal doll from Child’s Play .
Chucky, as he’s known, quickly became my favourite for two reasons. One, because of his surprisingly sharp wit coupled with his peerless comedic timing, and two, because I figured that if ever faced with any of these hellions, I would have my best chance against the rubber doll with tiny hands. The slasher films of the late 1970s and 1980s were built on clichés and relied almost exclusively on bloody violence and excessive gore. For me, peering through the tiny opening between the wall and the door in my jammy-jams, these predictable plotlines and extravagant death scenes were both alluring and terrifying, a most unfortunate coupling for a vulnerable seven-year-old.
The images of these killers hiding in my closet or crouching behind the shower curtain consumed me in the way most children of that age obsess over boy bands or professional athletes. Unable to sleep, I would be forced to confess the details of my illicit late-night viewings to Mom. Her disappointment soon led to anger. But Mom’s not one to carry her temper long, and inevitably she would set it aside. Her anger would evolve into support, insisting that those awful characters were completely fictional and imaginary. We would sit together over a cup of warm milk or a bowl of her homemade soup as she explained in great detail how some Hollywood film screenwriter had been paid to invent the scariest creature he could imagine and then write a story about it. Like any business, the point was to make as much money as possible, so the scarier the better. She would always accentuate the fact that these monsters were conceived in someone’s head and born on the set of a movie, never borrowed from real life. “It’s not reality,” she would remind me over and over again, dunking a chunk of cookie into her mug of milk. “It’s just pretend.”
On the occasions when her consoling words weren’t enough, Dad would be summoned and asked to declaw any potential threat that might be looming in my closet, under my bed, or, most often, in my head. When words and ideology weren’t enough, the sheer physical presence of Dad clad in boxer shorts and a tattered undershirt
After instinctively scanning through all the channels three or four times, I’m forced to choose between an infomercial trying to sell me a vibrating abdominal belt and a horror movie called The Mothman Prophecies . Considering that my popcorn was gone in five minutes and I’ve moved on to a bowl of cheese curds, I stay on the infomercial for only a few minutes. I’d love to actually meet these actors. Get inside their heads. Find out what motivates them. Do these infomercial spots figure into their childhood dreams and aspirations? Or are they aware of their inherent ridiculousness?
I flip the channel over to The Mothman Prophecies . I remember hearing about this film a few years ago — it’s adapted from a novel of the same name and generated substantial buzz. I scan the information on the satellite guide. The movie is set in a small West Virginia town where a reporter from Washington, D.C., investigates several strange encounters, unusual sightings, and mysterious phone calls. It’s believed that a large supernatural moth-like creature is responsible for the chaos. I haven’t seen a good horror movie in a while.
My introduction to horror films started early, when I was a wide-eyed seven-year-old. I remember sneaking out of bed and furtively crawling down the carpeted hall on my forearms and knees like a Navy Seal. Using the screams as my compass, I would converge on my older brother and a group of his teenage pals, slung over the couches in our TV room. It was the golden era of the horror genre. Fans had the luxury of choosing from a wide range of villains, the likes of which had never been seen before. There was the dream-invading Freddy Krueger, the machete-wielding Jason Voorhees, the demented Michael Myers, and even that homicidal doll from Child’s Play .
Chucky, as he’s known, quickly became my favourite for two reasons. One, because of his surprisingly sharp wit coupled with his peerless comedic timing, and two, because I figured that if ever faced with any of these hellions, I would have my best chance against the rubber doll with tiny hands. The slasher films of the late 1970s and 1980s were built on clichés and relied almost exclusively on bloody violence and excessive gore. For me, peering through the tiny opening between the wall and the door in my jammy-jams, these predictable plotlines and extravagant death scenes were both alluring and terrifying, a most unfortunate coupling for a vulnerable seven-year-old.
The images of these killers hiding in my closet or crouching behind the shower curtain consumed me in the way most children of that age obsess over boy bands or professional athletes. Unable to sleep, I would be forced to confess the details of my illicit late-night viewings to Mom. Her disappointment soon led to anger. But Mom’s not one to carry her temper long, and inevitably she would set it aside. Her anger would evolve into support, insisting that those awful characters were completely fictional and imaginary. We would sit together over a cup of warm milk or a bowl of her homemade soup as she explained in great detail how some Hollywood film screenwriter had been paid to invent the scariest creature he could imagine and then write a story about it. Like any business, the point was to make as much money as possible, so the scarier the better. She would always accentuate the fact that these monsters were conceived in someone’s head and born on the set of a movie, never borrowed from real life. “It’s not reality,” she would remind me over and over again, dunking a chunk of cookie into her mug of milk. “It’s just pretend.”
On the occasions when her consoling words weren’t enough, Dad would be summoned and asked to declaw any potential threat that might be looming in my closet, under my bed, or, most often, in my head. When words and ideology weren’t enough, the sheer physical presence of Dad clad in boxer shorts and a tattered undershirt
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