I was ten, and I was in love with Drew Barrymore. No, really–I was head-over-heels, kiss-my-Ever-After-poster-before-going-to-bed, soul-crushingly in love with Drew Barrymore. I still am, a little bit (we always keep a tiny place in our hearts reserved for our first crushes, right?), but this was 2000 or so, and I was in deep. My Halloweens then usually consisted of dressing up in whatever costume my mom and I decided on (usually one that required a hat–I was very much a hat kid), going trick-or-treating with my handful of cousins who lived in town, and falling asleep telling myself it was almost midnight and therefore Michael Myers would soon go back to wherever he goes when it isn’t Halloween. But I was getting older (cue “Landslide” playing faintly in the background), and I thought it would be cool to bribe my older brother to rent Scream from the local Blockbuster. I had no idea what I was in for. I don’t recommend it, watching your heart of hearts get taken out Ghostface-style. Honestly, I still can’t make Jiffy Pop without worrying some teenage shithead bogeyman with a grudge is going to pay me a visit.
But hell, what an opening scene. I think the proximity gets me the most–horror in suburbia especially always terrifies me. Her parents were right there, for chrissake. But y’all have seen Scream, and you’re very likely familiar with the first thirteen minutes I’m referring to. Sound lends the scene a particularly jarring effect–both the exaggerated sound effects of the knife and the Marco Beltrami score. On subsequent viewings I’d make sure to skip to just around minute fourteen, but as I approached college I thought maybe I was imaging the impact the scene had on me, so decided to give it another go. Turns out I wasn’t imagining anything–it terrifies me, even still.
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