A Trip Down Horror Memory Lane
This lane is barely visible under the growths of weeds and the refuse of picked-over carrion that litter the way. It is a lane where the sun is blocked forever by the canopy of gargantuan, peeling trees that loom overhead like ancient inquisitors foretelling the doom of any who dare traverse the path. Where the smell of putrescence hinders all thought but those of fear and darkness and death. Where every step is accompanied by a barely-audible sound of predators lurking under cover of the woods. Every one of those sounds answered by its maker’s demon brethren. Yes, boys and girls, this is horror’s memory lane—and I’m happy to be your host.
This lane is barely visible under the growths of weeds and the refuse of picked-over carrion that litter the way. It is a lane where the sun is blocked forever by the canopy of gargantuan, peeling trees that loom overhead like ancient inquisitors foretelling the doom of any who dare traverse the path. Where the smell of putrescence hinders all thought but those of fear and darkness and death. Where every step is accompanied by a barely-audible sound of predators lurking under cover of the woods. Every one of those sounds answered by its maker’s demon brethren. Yes, boys and girls, this is horror’s memory lane—and I’m happy to be your host.
My name is Miguel Rodriguez, and I host the acclaimed and exponentially expanding Monster Island Resort Podcast. With less than one year in cyberspace, the “online radio show that goes bump in the night” has gotten nearly 2,500 subscribers, 1,100 fans on Facebook, and emails nearly every day. I have also started Horrible Imaginings, the first film festival in San Diego dedicated to horror, and have organized four film events since last November. So, why this fanatical preoccupation with the macabre? Where did it all start? Well, I was kindly asked by Mr. Bob O Mac of the Creatures of Death blog to write about my personal history with horror for his Fan Fright, I jumped at the chance.
Now, I am currently 33 years of age, which means I was a kid right in the middle of the slasher and boogeyman craze of the 1980s. Freddy, Jason, Michael Myers, and Leatherface were the Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, Wolf Man, and Gillman of my generation. Be that as it may, I watched and fell in love with the classics before I snuck the chance to see more modern fare. My mother used them to sate my hunger for horror, I’m assuming because she thought they were more appropriate for a child. And also because I really was easily scared by horror films as a young kid.But I’m getting ahead of myself.
To really start this story, it would have had to be when I was around four years old. My baby brother Marcos and I were left in the care of our grandmother Telby for one night while our parents went on a date. My grandmother loved horror, and I really dedicate this writing to her. She passed away on this month, almost exactly one year ago. We watched movies all the time, and all the time she wanted them to be “scary stories.” It must be in our blood.
Anyway, my parents got home from their date that fateful night and entered my grandmother’s house without making a sound in case we were asleep. Us being so young (and my father being no fan to the genre whatsoever) my parents had monitored what we watched and heard quite carefully up to that point. So in they crept, through the house, and they heard my grandmother’s voice through the wall. She was telling us a story. Quietly, so as not to interrupt, my parents looked into the room where we were. I wonder what their faces looked like when they heard the climax of my grandmother’s story:
“And he hacked off his head and threw it away and the blood was spurting everywhere!”
My young self heard many stories like that in my young, impressionable years: the hook-handed killer, the ghost woman crying for the children she drowned, the “ka-thump” story (ask me about this one), and—a story my aunt still swears is true—the time my great cousin saw Satan in the woods. All of those stories really terrified me, but they fascinated me, as well. They also made me feel a little more ready to face real things like bullies at school or mean teachers.
“And he hacked off his head and threw it away and the blood was spurting everywhere!”
My young self heard many stories like that in my young, impressionable years: the hook-handed killer, the ghost woman crying for the children she drowned, the “ka-thump” story (ask me about this one), and—a story my aunt still swears is true—the time my great cousin saw Satan in the woods. All of those stories really terrified me, but they fascinated me, as well. They also made me feel a little more ready to face real things like bullies at school or mean teachers.
One of my most treasured cinema memories was when I was taken to see Godzilla 1985 during its American theatrical release. I had watched Godzilla films TV creepshows and forced my mom to borrow Godzilla movies from the library. My obsession with monsters was born. At the school library, the book I wanted to look at again and again was a sort of encyclopedia of classic Universal and Hammer horror monsters. Something about them—the way they would simultaneously instill in me fear and sympathy—really resonated with me. I couldn’t have known how to explain it at the time, but I think that’s what it was.
What really sealed my love for the horror film, though, came not from a film at all, but a documentary. I believe I came to see the documentary because my mother had rented Silver Bullet. I was 8 years old. In the very first scene a drunken man hears a noise by some lone railroad tracks. As he checks it out, the film gets its first jump scare—a werewolf paw flies toward the screen, a severed head flies away from the screen. It freaked me the hell out and my mom told me it was all make believe. But it looked so real! So she went the next day and borrowed the aforementioned documentary, which I will now reveal was The Making of Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Now I was 8-years-old and I knew about acting, and that movies were make-believe, and all of that. But seeing that documentary triggered something in me. Over and over again I would ask for that tape from the library, and I would watch it over and over. I would watch it with family members and with neighborhood kids. The best part for me was Rick Baker turning Michael Jackson into the werewolf, my favorite monster.
Ever since then, the horror film came to mean something more to me. They were a great thrill ride, an escape into our basest and most primal selves, a mirror to our inhumanity, an expression of our fears, and a way to feel alive, yes. But they were also works of craft requiring a collaboration of scores of talent. To see what went behind the scenes didn’t disappoint me or ruin the films, but it made them even richer and more fascinating.
This passion, of course, has only grown and strengthened with age. It is that passion that makes me talk to whoever will listen via my podcast and share films during my film festivals. As horror fans, we are often faced with the derision of our peers, but we don’t let that stop us, do we? We know our love for the genre comes from somewhere beyond surface value, and that’s good enough to sustain us.
If you are still reading this, I thank you and I hope you had a good time walking horror’s memory lane with me. If you are going to contribute to Bob O Mac’s Fan Fright collection for Creatures of Death, then I can’t wait to read what you have to say. Don’t forget to listen to Monster Island Resort and, until next time, stay frightened!
Miguel Rodriguez
If you are still reading this, I thank you and I hope you had a good time walking horror’s memory lane with me. If you are going to contribute to Bob O Mac’s Fan Fright collection for Creatures of Death, then I can’t wait to read what you have to say. Don’t forget to listen to Monster Island Resort and, until next time, stay frightened!
Miguel Rodriguez
You can find Miguel at: Miguel Rodriguez
Monster Island Resort
