There are few things in life more capable of scaring me senseless than humans. We are an unpredictable creature from the day we breathe our first breath. Much like beautifully wrapped packages on Christmas morning, you may only guess what’s inside. Ultimately, there arrives a revealing moment when the contents, beautiful or hideous, are presented for all the world to gaze upon. Unfortunately for the human race, there are no exchange counters or thirty day return policies. If only we could see within the packages before we opened them, we might be given a chance to make better choices, thus allowing us to avoid some of life’s ugly little turns.
While Lovecraft fans like me endure the excruciating wait for Del Toro’s “At the Mountains of Madness”, pickings are notoriously slim for any other tentacle-y goodness. Ordinarily, when Hollywood gets its grubby little mitts on any of Lovecraft’s work, the only resemblance it might bear to the original is the title. Sometimes, not even that. Lovecraft is not an easy author to adapt. It’s a job best left to professionals and scholars… like the people of the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society.
The local horror film festival season kicks off when the Pretty Scary film festival opens at the Texas Theater February 26th.
After surviving this week’s winterpocalypse we kick off this year’s “What Do Horror Fans Want?” with writer/photographer/ actress Amanda Reboholz of Horrorphile Entertainment.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one.
Let me tell you about the horror movie with the bunch of pretty kids who get waylaid somewhere out in the country where there is no cell service and then are attacked by some being of a vaguely supernatural nature. Through a series of bonehead moves, most of them die and just when it might look like one will escape, the bloodthirsty evil rears its head and casts its shadow over the ending.
Familiar story? The trick in telling old stories (or old jokes) is to change them up a bit and give us something that we aren’t expecting. When you don’t and you choose to foist old chestnuts on the public, you are considered a bit of a bore – or at the very least, the people who brought us “Husk”.