My earliest memory of being scared at the movies was in 1983. My dad, sister and I went to go see The Return of the Jedi at a movie theater in Jersey City, probably the closest theater that still had tickets available for the blockbuster conclusion to the original Star Wars trilogy. I had just turned three, and to be honest all I can remember from that day is sticking my head into the empty seat next to me as soon as Jabba The Hutt made his first appearance. It was the only time I had this reaction to the giant
Stu Horvath digs into the mysteries of that paranoid horror classic, John Carpenter’s The Thing.
A few nights ago, I was driving with my friend Ian into the wilds of western New Jersey. My girlfriend’s parents live out there, in a town named Califon (fun fact: the town was supposed to be called California, but that was too long for the sign, so…) and her car had broken down while she was out there visiting. We were the rescue team. It was raining. The bulk of the ride, a 35-mile straight shot out Route 78, was about what you’d expect. It was late, so there wasn’t much on the road aside of the occasional long
Stu Horvath returns to Haddonfield to examine the legacy of John Carpenter’s Halloween.
Stu Horvath wonders if we really need a Ghostbusters III.
The earliest memory I have of The Fog is catching it during one of those monster movie marathons channels used to run on weekends in October, the ancestors of Joe Bob Briggs’ MosterVision. I was at my grandparent’s house down the shore and expecting the usual fare of kaiju or schlocky 50s B-movie monsters. What I got, though… One scene in particular stands out: when the young boy Andy walks along the windswept beach and finds a piece of driftwood emblazoned with the name of the ship that is haunting Antonio Bay. I didn’t get much farther than that –