The Horror of It All
Page 23
Brilliant prognostication indeed. And this is just a sampling of what I wrote. Most of it was far less intelligible.
One thing I’m fairly certain of, however, is that we’re never going to return to the dark days before Scream. The wellspring will never again be that dry. The ghetto that horror once was forced into has gentrified. It’s not just hip to be square, it’s hip to be scared. The geeks have inherited the earth.
There are too many movies, too many TV series, too many reality ghost-hunting shows, too many horror conventions, too many film festivals, too many up-and-coming horror novelists, too many comics, too many toys—just too much horror in the ether for the genre to ever disappear.
The trick now becomes how to separate the crap from the quality. And the best part is, like a long road trip, the journey is half the fun.
In the epilogue to the paperback edition of Fargo Rock City, Chuck Klosterman explains how his love for Radiohead—despite their genius—could never approach the love he had for Mötley Crüe at fifteen. It’s a poignant piece of writing on the powerful yet ephemeral nature of teenage passion.
I know exactly how he feels. As terrifying as I still find The Watcher in the Woods, the image of a blindfolded Karen Aylwood will never again give me a sleepless night. I could watch A Nightmare on Elm Street sitting on Wes Craven’s lap while being fed grapes by Heather Langenkamp and it wouldn’t come close to approaching the excitement I felt during that night in seventh grade when I had a girl under each arm. Michael Myers is now old enough to receive his AARP card.
But what’s different, and wonderful, about horror is that you never really grow out of the one thing that drew all of us to the genre in the first place: the love of being scared. The triggers are different, but the feeling is the same.
Recently, I was trying to find an appropriate horror movie to watch with my sixteen-year-old niece. It had to be scary enough for a teenager but without the profanity or sexual situations that would make the viewing beyond uncomfortable. Poltergeist seemed like the perfect choice. Best of all, she had never even heard of it. I’ve seen Poltergeist well over fifty times, and I can recite the “You only moved the headstones!” rant verbatim. But since it’s been more than a decade since I last watched it, I decided to give it a quick spin.
Obviously, it was as great as I remembered. It’s a classic and classics are timeless. But what I was struck by was how differently I identified with the characters. In the past, it was the famous clown scene that made my blood run cold. I could totally see myself as eight-year-old Robbie Freeling, absolutely convinced that the crazy-looking toy sitting on my rocking chair was going to come alive and strangle me—which of course it does.
But this time, it was the scene where Carol Anne first goes missing that was the most traumatic. I could literally feel the panic rise inside me as Steven and Diane search the house in vain for their missing daughter, reaching a crescendo when they assume she’s been killed by the freak storm that just ripped through their neighborhood. Until I became a parent, I had absolutely no idea how gut-wrenching the thought of losing a child could be.
When the movie was over, I walked quietly up the stairs and stood outside my daughter’s door. Slowly, I opened it and peeked inside. Only her head was visible above the covers. She was snuggling her stuffed piggy—as she always does when she’s asleep or tired—drifting peacefully across some distant dreamscape. I closed her door and headed toward my son’s room. Boys are different. He too was fast asleep, sprawled out pretzel-like on top of the covers, a twisted bundle of extremities, exhausted from his subconscious battles with Herobrines and Creepers.
I hate pop psychology. So I’m certainly not going to write something as trite as, say, To appreciate the light, you have to embrace the darkness. That’s such a cliché, and not even true.
But I will say that for those fleeting moments, as I gazed upon my sleeping children, it was a horror movie—one of those wonderful, awful, crazy, wild, brilliant, absurd, and unforgettable movies—that reminded me how much I loved them.
That’s not bad for a genre most people view with contempt. That’s not bad for any genre.
* * *
I. The episode was eventually released on DVD with the rest of the series and currently airs uncut on numerous streaming services.
II. Whenever I say this to other horror fans, they immediately grow indignant, even if they too love the film. They’ll laugh and say, “Oh, so you think it’s better than The Exorcist? Oh, so you think it’s better than Rosemary’s Baby? Oh, so you think it’s better than Texas Chain Saw?” Uh, no, no, and no. All I said was it’s one of the twenty best. Jeez.
III. According to his essay “What’s Scary” in Fangoria 289, King eventually finished watching The Blair Witch Project. After subsequent viewings, he still found it absolutely terrifying.
IV. I’m excluding Deep Throat because despite the fact that some crazy numbers are thrown around—the most common being $600 million—there are no reliable figures for its lifetime gross.
V. I’m unable to find the original source of this quote. But it’s been printed so often I have to believe it’s something King has said. And if it’s not, I wish it was.
VI. I can’t believe I actually have to address this issue, but horror fans are beyond obsessive about things like this. Throughout this book, I’ve used two words, “Chain Saw,” when writing the title of the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre. This is how the film’s title appears on-screen and in the copyright. However, on the film’s poster, and on some other marketing materials, Chainsaw is written as a single world. In Going to Pieces, I wrote Chainsaw as such, simply because I thought it was more aesthetically pleasing. Some critics freaked out and attacked my horror knowledge. I’ve rectified the spelling for this work, even though said critics can go fuck themselves. For the 2003 remake, I will write it as Chainsaw since this is the proper spelling of the title for this specific film.
My offending second-grade essay. Far more disturbing than the content is the teacher’s haphazard editorial work.
My college buddy Mike Scheer and me, dressed as Jason Voorhees for Halloween. Senior year, the two of us had a Friday the 13th marathon where we watched the first eight installments of the series. That same year, Scheer’s German girlfriend, whom he had met while traveling abroad, came to stay with us. When I asked if she spoke English, he replied, “She speaks English better than you, Rockoff.” Upon arriving, she could barely say “hello” and almost immediately got bitten by a spider, causing a pus-filled, golf-ball-size lump to form on her forehead. They broke up soon after.
The author as the killer in his unforgettable student film, Quid Pro Quo.
Me and my business partner in FlashRock Films, Alex Flaster, at one of the haunted houses we visit during Halloween.
Interviewing George Mihalka, director of the original My Bloody Valentine.
I’m still amazed Wicked Lake received this kind of promotion.
Michael Ruggiero and me at the Los Angeles premiere of I Spit on Your Grave (2010). A longtime producer and television executive, Ruggiero produced the documentary adaptation of Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film.
Me; Rudy Scalese, the producer most responsible for turning Going to Pieces into a documentary; actress Lynn Lowry of The Crazies and Shivers; and Ruggiero (left to right).
The lovely Sarah Butler, star of I Spit on Your Grave (2010); the less lovely but equally delightful Meir Zarchi, writer/director of the original I Spit; and me, sporting a gigantic sweat stain on my T-shirt (left to right).
Brian Kirst, founder of Big Gay Horror Fan; some dude I don’t know; the legendary Herschell Gordon Lewis; and me, literally five minutes before Herschell yelled at the kid at the adjacent table (left to right).
Me and Jon Kitley of Kitley’s Krypt, webmaster, author, columnist, collector, and the most knowledgeable horror fan I know.
Feasting on the intestines of Rusty Nails, who, for some inexplicable reaso
n, is dressed as a disemboweled Santa Claus.
Acknowledgments
As a rule, nobody gives a shit about acknowledgments except for the people being acknowledged. So instead of offering up thanks, I contemplated calling out those who have in some way wronged me throughout my life. But I reconsidered for two reasons. One, I could already hear my mother accusing me of refusing to let go of a grudge. And two, it would be a disservice to the many people who have been indispensable to me throughout the course of writing this book.
Besides myself, there’s no one more responsible for the creation of The Horror of It All than Brant Rumble, my editor at Scribner. From the moment I sent him my initial query, I could not have imagined a more enthusiastic, patient, supportive, and savvy partner in crime. In short, he’s the editor that every writer dreams of having.
In an analogy keeping with his amateur career as a football star, my agent Jud Laghi took a project in the red zone and powered it across the goal line.
The entire team at Simon & Schuster worked tirelessly on my behalf and I cannot thank them enough for their efforts. John Glynn curbed my more self-indulgent impulses and offered valuable editorial advice. Aja Pollock is not only a brilliant copy editor but saved me countless times from undoubtedly incurring the wrath of horror fans everywhere with careless mistakes (I really do know the difference between Ken Russell and Chuck Russell, I swear). Jason Heuer designed a cover I fell in love with the first time I saw it. Attorney Elisa Rivlin kept me on the straight and narrow and convinced me that a memoir about horror films might not be the best place to take revenge on some awful elementary school teachers.
Photographer extraordinaire Kristin Reyer made me look much better in my jacket photo than I do in real life.
Although I’ve never met or even corresponded with Chuck Klosterman, Fargo Rock City gave me hope that if an ordinary kid from rural North Dakota could write an indisputable classic, then maybe an ordinary kid from suburban New Jersey could write something almost readable.
Tony Timpone, Rodrigo Gudiño, Shade Rupe, Darren Good, and Noah Agay generously gave their time and provided much-needed information.
My business partner Alex Flaster was nothing but supportive about what I’m sure he considered an annoying diversion keeping me from our core business of making television shows. But he never once said a word and even allowed me to screen the Blu-ray release of Snuff in his apartment.
And finally, no debt of gratitude would be complete without mentioning the three most important people in my life: my loving wife, Lori, who incredibly requested only a handful of changes to this manuscript, and our two amazing children, Noah and Hailey. All parents think their kids are the best. You’re all wrong.
© KRISTIN REYER
ADAM ROCKOFF is the screenwriter of Wicked Lake, a film so depraved that it caused Ron Jeremy to storm out of the theater in anger. However, his 2010 adaptation of the classic exploitation film I Spit on Your Grave received nearly unanimous praise from horror critics. His first book, Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film, 1978–1986, a critical examination of the slasher genre, was made into a documentary that premiered on Starz. When he’s not getting his hands bloody, Rockoff runs the television production company FlashRock Films.
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Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film, 1978–1986
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