Horror films and the unfamiliar

You're not ready and that's perfect

a terrifying moment from The BIrds when a mysterious flock descends on a group of school children

*contains spoilers about The Birds

I went to two movies in two weeks. That’s some kind of recent record. The first was a 60^th anniversary showing of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. The film holds up if one can put aside the crude special effects that are silly by today’s standards. I mean, it still works because it seems like it could happen. The slow retreat from Bodega Bay with perched blackbirds in the final scene dismisses the viewer into an alert unease of every flock of birds they see for the rest of their lives. 

The second was Rosemary’s Baby, a film I had never seen and hope never to see again. It’s meant to be profoundly unsettling, and it achieved that goal like few things I’d ever seen, at least on purpose. 

Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby

I saw The Birds in a modern cinema. The kind of place you’ve been to if you’ve been to the movies in the last, I don’t know, twenty years. When the door swung open, and the overly familiar look of the lobby and the smell of popcorn hit me, my mind went on autopilot. I knew I’d show the ticket I bought online to someone who would tear and return it, likely without saying anything more than what number screen to amble towards. The number being the only different thing about the room I’d walk into. I’d get into the overly comfortable seat, and the well-worn experience would feel very expected. It did. 

A modern theater

Rosemary’s baby was being shown in a theater space that was being renovated. It was in a part of an early 20^th-century hospital building. Work will be done to turn into something, but it’s barely discernible what it is even in its present state. The work was so unfinished I wondered if it had been started. A polished artist's drawing of what will be there someday was beside the makeshift concession area. A single employee raced around selling popcorn and chilled soda while peppering his every interaction with apologies no one needed for all he was doing.

As I looked around at the decayed ceiling and disarray of the lobby, the drawing seemed to show something that would take place elsewhere. I couldn’t imagine the space I was in would ever look like the drawing. 

My friend Danny had been before and knew the route to the theater. Which was good because as I followed him around curved staircases, blind corners, weirdly slanted floors, and completely unexpected turns, I worried I would never find my way there or out. 

Eventually, we stood at a centered landing, looking down into the cavernous theater space. It was like seeing the inside of a sunken ship that hadn’t been used until recently. Behind the patina from age and neglect, it was likely impressive when the ribbon was cut in the early 1900’s. Renovators say “good bones,” but you’d have to say “good dinosaur bones.” 

The seat was too small and hard, but all of it brought back memories of the Murphy Theater from my youth in southern Ohio. A place I saw movies like E.T. and Raiders of the Lost Ark. 

As we waited for the film to start, from an Amazon Prime account being signed into before us on the screen, I thought of many reasons that would have been reason enough to wait to show movies here. Nothing felt ready. 

We need to wait

Having been on the planning end of many things in my life, I know the voices that come from within and without that say, “Well, we need to wait.” 

Wait for what? The expected experience. What feels familiar to a mind-numbing degree? The well-rehearsed experience that puts us on auto-pilot that we sleepwalk through? Is it any wonder we feel half-dead inside? We create sterile environments and experiences the same as our last ones. Our minds aren’t asked to do much, and I’m afraid they don’t. 

Sometimes, we need to go before we feel ready. Because our readiness is defined by what we’ve done before and not what we hope to do. This is where worth-challenged folks struggle. Our worth is creating things that can go unnoticed. That’s not our goal; we want to be brave and fresh and share art, but often, it’s safe. It’s ready. 

We can’t hazard the judgment of not being ready or familiar. We will wilt in the judgment of seeming un-similar. 

Start before you’re ready

Here’s your encouragement to go precisely before you feel ready. This Substack isn’t ready yet. It meanders, it goes off-topic, it repeats itself. It’s also a failure by algorithmic standards. Heck, even by Substack standards, it would seem. 

But I happen to know there are people who nurse their way around the faded corners of things I hope to improve with a desire and belief in what’s next. Even if weekly, I have to remind myself of where I’m going. 

So, start before you’re ready.

I’ll leave you with a quote from Schiller.

Live with your century, but do not be its creature; render to your contemporaries what they need, not what they praise.

Be well, Feral Souls.