There are two ways to watch a horror film. Method one: with dignity. Method two: cowering behind a pillow while trying to hum through the all screaming and blood-chocked death rattles.
I’m type two – have been since age ten when my big sister introduced me to the darker side of Hollywood. I wouldn’t call Scream a classic (minus how it was Matthew Lillard’s hunky period), but it was mentally scarring for a wide-eyed, Winnie-the-Pooh-loving fifth-grader, with a fiercely overactive imagination. Fast-forward a decade, and I still can’t take the suspense.
I know I can sit through a horror flick, but the terror weighs heavily on my sanity and sleeping patterns. Visions of supernatural serial-killers, the un-dead, and other baddies have kept me awake in the twilight hours, frozen with the covers pulled up to my chin, heart racing because I have convinced myself that a soft creaking at the window was really the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door. It hasn’t helped that once those noises did turn out to be an intruder (only it was really my neighbour Gloria who my parents had asked to watch the house while they were out of town…she thought that I was a burglar…we try not to talk about it). In other words, it’s in my heart to be mortally afraid of all the completely unconvincing, unlikely, unnerving, villains that haunt the silver screen/my dreams – but they can still be pretty good for getting cute boys to hold your hand in the theatre.