Horror films aren’t any fun as a parent. The other day I made it about 15 minutes into IT, the 2017 movie based on the cosmic-evil-dressed-as-a-clown Stephen King classic, before insisting on turning it off.
I wanted to stop watching it because – and I am aware this is a deeply uncool thing to say – it was making me sad that the children in it were scared.
You know when you do something really lame and people look at you and go “You… you’ve changed”?
I’ve changed.
I used to watch so many films that involved young people getting killed. The resurgence in attractive-teenagers-getting-stabbed cinema that began with 1996′s Scream coincided with me being just the right age to get into it (ie. slightly too young). If it stars someone off Dawson’s Creek and involves a disembowelment, I’ve seen it. If it stars someone who went out with someone off Dawson’s Creek and involves a disembowelment, I’ve also seen it.
Those attractive teenagers were older than me, though. When you’re a kid, a 17-year-old is basically a grown-up. When you’re in your thirties, a 17-year-old is a child, full of hopes and dreams and love and potential – and the part where they get sucked into a ceiling fan and liquidised is still a little bit “oooooh”, but it’s also pretty sad. Now, I think about the aftermath, and the loss, and the parents – and that’s missing the point of silly horror films entirely.
When I was 14, I went to the cinema with my parents to see Face/Off, a film I’d already seen and loved and assumed they would also love. It begins with the son of John Travolta’s character being shot with a sniper rifle – no skin off my greasy nose at the time, but a bit of a shock to a parent assured the film is “such a laugh”. My dad told me afterwards he’d considered walking out in disgust a few minutes in. And now I get it.
I hope this queasiness goes away, or at least fades a bit, because I bloody love horror films. I’ve seen some of the grossest films ever made. Low-budget 1980s nonsense where you’re not sure what’s going on but everyone in it has worse hair than everyone else. Grotty 1970s stuff that was banned on VHS, but you get a dodgy copy from your mate’s brother’s mate.
“Don’t be mean to cute little kids with nice hair. Keeping one of those safe and happy is pretty much the main focus of my life."”
Remake the teenage slasher films of my youth starring the same actors, now in their fifties, and I’ll be there like a shot. “Haha!” I’ll shout, delighted. “His intestines have come out of where his intestines used to be, and he is holding his intestines!” But watching teenagers being brutally killed just doesn’t seem entertaining in the same way it used to.
And it’s the same with action movies – I can still watch films where hundreds of people get their throats kicked through the backs of their heads. Show me jagged pipes sliding through baddies’ eyes until the cows come home, but if he nicks a little kid’s skipping rope to kill one of them, and the kid is sad, I’ll be sad too.
It’s not horror, but I recently rewatched season one of Game Of Thrones and was far more upset than I watched it the first time round – back in my carefree, childless days. The opening episode ends with Bran Stark, a 10-year-old boy, being pushed out of a window to his (intended) death.
The first time round, I saw it as a bit of a mission statement, a kind of “Wow, this show isn’t pulling any punches!” moment. This time? He just seemed really little, and his hair sort of reminded me of my daughter’s, and I’d... I’d just rather nobody was mean to him.
There are much more violent bits later on in, of course. The bit where Pedro Pascal has his eyes thumbed in? I’d rather it hadn’t happened, as he was a fun character, but it’s fine – he’s a fighting man, having a fight. Just don’t be mean to cute little kids with nice hair. Keeping one of those safe and happy is pretty much the main focus of my life, so I don’t want to watch it failing to happen.
IT: Chapter Two comes out later this year, starring grown-ups as adult versions of the first film’s survivors. I’ll watch it, and not know what the hell is going on, and not care, and laugh and cheer when the clown eats an adult’s face or whatever. Then, in 15 years, I’ll watch the first one with my daughter, and she’ll laugh at how lame I am, and I’ll pretend I’m not, but I am.
I’ve… I’ve changed.