Friday, June 13, 2003

If I was in a slasher movie (and that's not to say that I'm not), I would want to be the creepy old guy that lives down by the swamp. He does some disturbing gardening projects, hangs up dead rabbits outside his shack, and just waits around for the high-schoolers to show up. Then he gets to menace them with a pitchfork and give them the evil eye. He wants to warn the giggling tribe of teens that they should not even consider the humping.

Because he knows what'll happen.

He gets to be twitchy and affect a ridiculous accent that varies between Cajun, Canuck and sometimes Welsh. He doesn't have to spend time worrying about his wardrobe. Just punches the clock, smears a little mud on his chin, and he's ready to go.

The function of the creepy old guy down by the swamp is basically a red herring. But there's something deeper to the creepy old guy too: He's been involved in some way with the murderer. Maybe back in '55 he was there the night the football team pantsed him in front of the whole school, or he witnessed that terrible toaster accident that left the killer scarred and vengeful.

Oh yeah. That's the life for me. Creepy old guy down by the swamp.

I mean, being the killer would be, let's face it, a lot of work. Who has time to go around punishing smoochers. And you've got to have a gimmick, like the hockey mask or a limp. Then you have to remember which leg you're supposed to be limping on. And you always have to be thinking up new ways to rain judgment down on the unworthy. That's a lot of pressure.

Being the jock guy who carries a football or some other such prop around until he is skewered with a fence-post while having a feel-up session with one of the easier cheerleaders? Well, sure, you don't have to remember a lot of dialogue and you do get the feel-up session. But you can be pretty sure you're number is up either immediately before, during, or immediately after your "little death" (and if you're the girl, you get no "little death" at all. Believe me. I actually took film theory classes on this.)

Probably the worst fate of all would be the Survivor Girl. You get harrassed for about 87 minutes, you have to look pensive and troubled a lot, and all that ear-piercing screaming can't be easy on the throat. You know you're going to fall down, and maybe break a minor leg bone in the ultimate or penultimate chase. And then, just when the reassuring music comes up, the killer in whose eye socket you buried a curling iron is going to leap out from somewhere just to annoy you.

And your dog'll die.

Yep. I'll stick to creepy old guy down by the swamp, thanks very much.


Blog Archive