Welcome! It was the week awards season officially kicked off, with the announcement of this year’s Gotham nominations. It was the week Netflix employees staged a walk-out in light of Dave Chappelle’s polarizing stand-up special. And it was the week that Kanye West officially changed his name to Ye. Hear ye, hear ye, let’s go.
Opening Argument: How do you like your scary movies?
If there were a Scrooge or Grinch-like equivalent for Halloween – an irascible party pooper who doesn’t particularly care for pumpkins, scowls at the idea of strangers ringing their doorbell in search of candy, and rolls their eyes at adults who get excited about dressing up in costume for one day out of the year – they might look something like me.
Call me The Halloween Grinch: Maybe it was because I was the weirdo kid who didn’t like candy. (Seriously – never had a taste for it in pretty much any form, so all the treats I collected went to my parents and my sister, who probably loved me a bit more because of this.) It also probably has to do with the fact that while I’ve always had a brain that leans creative, I find the pressure of figuring out an elaborate and/or out-of-the-box costume to be particularly anxiety-inducing.
Weirdly, this is something that’s only gotten worse the older I get; I blame social media and my group of friends, who loooovvvveee this holiday with the level of fervor that I love Christmas, which is to say, a lot. Every year, I reluctantly stress over what to wear to whatever party I’m going to and how much time I have to procure what I need. Then, I put in the absolute minimum amount of effort required to be as convincing as possible. #Sorrynotsorry, but I’m not spending hours making a costume from scratch or watching YouTube makeup tutorials. You’re lucky I didn’t just show up in a basic black outfit wearing mouse ears, telling everyone “I’m a mouse. Duh!” (Ok, I actually did do that one year.)
And yet, I LOVE scary movies. I love that rush of nervous excitement that percolates deep within my gut whenever I’ve gotten a good fright from a (truly) unexpected jump-scare, and the feeling of that sweet release of tension I didn’t even realize my body was carrying until after those moments of unnerving suspense. Keep your candy and costumes; gimme all your stylized and dramatic spooks and thrills.
I imagine our perception of what’s scary evolves for many of us as we age. When I was younger, your basic ghoul-like villains were the most terrifying to me – the Wicked Witch of the West (that cackle! the green skin!), Freddy Krueger, and the funhouse clown in that one Are You Afraid of the Dark? episode all seeped into my nightmares at one point or another. Looking back, I can see how my fears were steeped heavily in a visceral response to their physically grotesque and off-putting appearances, and not just whatever dastardly deeds they were committing.
In my tweens and early teens, it became harder to reproduce within myself that same level of fear via the same kind of scares. Kind of like never being able to recreate the feeling of your first high, I’d seen enough slasher movies and horror classics like Carrie and Night of the Living Dead to be familiar with the oft-repeated genre beats. I could still feel tense and engaged with the horror that did the familiar stuff well or subversively, but the fantastical element kept me at a bit of a remove. They weren’t really scaring me anymore. And they definitely weren’t giving me nightmares.
Part of that is, of course, growing up and gaining a new set of adult-like fears. Which is why the things I find truly scary these days – like, actually bone-chilling – are the stories and situations that could conceivably happen in real life. I think I became aware of this the first time I saw Scream, which happens to be celebrating its 25th anniversary this year. That opening scene with Drew Barrymore as Casey is a masterclass in balancing pure suspense with dashes of campy meta-humor (#neverforget: her boyfriend is “big and he plays football, and he'll kick the s--- out of you!”) and everything about it works, from her blonde bob cut to the gut-punch moment when Casey’s parents find her mutilated corpse hanging from the tree in their yard.
But what haunts me most is how a dude stalking a woman, torturing her, and then murdering her in her own home without the use of magical powers is completely believable. It taps into my everyday fears as a woman existing in this world, where things of this nature happen to women every day. Something like that could happen to me. And Scream is why I will never live in a home without curtains or blinds on the windows.
Ditto Psycho – to this day, whenever I’m showering in a place other than my own home, I lock the bathroom door. The climactic night goggles scene in Silence of the Lambs? So freaky; it still makes me physically shudder each time I watch it. More recently, the first several minutes of the Invisible Man remake starring Elisabeth Moss took my breath away in the best way possible. Yet again, it’s another example of a woman in peril that comes very close to representing real life.
Why do I find such pleasure in such pain? It feels like a different strain of the same conundrum that finds so many women supposedly drawn to true crime stories involving murdered women, though to be fair, I’m sure there are examples of realistic horror movies involving male protagonists I just can’t recall at this moment. (Get Out, maybe? Minus the brain transplants …)
Or perhaps I’ve just lost touch with the clever side of my imagination in adulthood, and won’t allow myself to give in to the spirits and ghosts and zombies anymore. After all, it’s a drag for me to work up excitement to put on a costume.
For what it’s worth, I’ll be attending a Halloween shindig this year with the theme “Myths and Legends.” It only took me a few minutes to order all the costume pieces online; I’ll be dressing as Aaliyah in her “Try Again” video. Begrudgingly, of course.
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