The Wraith was some sci-fi mess about a kid who was murdered by a gang of ruthless bikers and returned from the grave as a mysterious, black-clad racer with an invicible car with a glowing ghost engine. Or something like that. And there my brother sat, shaking his head throughout the experience, muttering "This is ridiuclous." But come on, brother! That car's engine is glowing! And it's invincible I think! An IMDB search turns up some character names. With bad guys the likes of Packard, Skank, Gutterboy and Rughead, how can you go wrong? The next movie I would scream and throw a fit about was only a year away, and by then, I'd be so much wiser in my choice.
Alas, my mind was none the sharper, and the TV Guide review summed it up quite well:
"A stunningly inept and totally reprehensible film...Haphazard scripting and editing give the movie a jumbled, confused feel. Apparently the public concurred about the film's repulsiveness, for outraged parents forced the distributor to pull television commercials for The Garbage Pail Kids Movie off the air, and the film died an incredibly quick death at the box office."
I remember being utterly confused at what was going on, and now feeling slightly bad for forcing my brother into this farce. However, a mere year and a half later, the pleas, tears, and convulsing would redouble when Freddy Kreuger made his triumphant return.
Yes, I was allowed to go to an R-rated horror movie when I was nine. I was familiar with the series from the VHS library of a neighbor, and we watched the third installment, The Dream Warriors, once a week. It was funny, horrifying, and clever, and Freddy always got the piss beat out of him in the final showdown. The following days in school, those who didn't know about Freddy during our lunchtime rounds of 'Raise Your Hand If' were a pitiful lot who had no idea how many astounding things they were missing.
My parents always warned that if these movies gave me nightmares, and came shrieking to them afterward, I wouldn't be allowed to watch them anymore. Needless to say, I suffered in silence. Freddy terrifed me. But, when talk of Part Five of the Greatest Movie Series Ever began, I informed my friends that I was going to see it. So there.
In retrospect, my brother must have been getting paid for this. I can't imagine he would agree to my nonsense a third time of his own volition. It was a weekend afternooon, and we entered the Cooper Five theatre as the previews were coming to a close, and everything was already dark. We found our seats in the oddly sparse side theatre ("Why aren't there more people here? They're all missing the best thing ever!"). The music started, some credits rolled, Robert Englund, Wes Craven, etc., etc.
Come on. Who needs exposition and conversation? Let's do this thing. Blood and claws now, please.
It couldn't have been more than ten minutes into the film when Random Jerk Athlete was on his motorcycle, and the bike comes to life. Hoses spring out of it and start burrowing into his skin, sharp things start grasping and stabbing at him, and he's fused with the speeding machine, covered in blood. And that was it for me, thank you very much. I started screaming and sobbing, and my brother (smiling, of course), ushers me out of the theatre to the bathrooms to wash my face. He patted me on the back as we walked up the ramp, consoling me as we passed the three other viewers. He really was a good guy. He was on my side, despite another failed venture to the movies.
I splashed water on my face and stood shuddering over the bathroom sink. He went into a stall. I was drying my hands, and it happened. My brother exacted his revenge on his pitiful, quivering sibling with poor taste in film.
"Uhh...Josh?" It was a nervous whisper.
I turned. His head poked around the corner of the stall.
"Did you hear--"
A hand burst from behind, coiled around his neck and ripped him back into the stall and he was screaming like a madman. Tears and snot exploded anew, and I was rooted in place, screaming for my brother's life, screaming at Freddy to stop. The were a scrabbling, and a chuckle, and my brother strolled out of the stall unharmed. Smiling. I was an utter mess, and he was quite pleased with himself.
This was all Freddy's fault. What a dick.
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