I like horror. A lot. In certain circumstances, this is great. But when I end up animatedly babbling on about the awesome brain squeezing scene in City of the Living Dead or the time the dude ate that revolting bowl of custard in Dead Alive, I occasionally get the impression that some people aren’t really there in the moment with me.
The first movie I actually remember seeing was Night of the Living Dead. I sat at a friend’s house and watched it, absorbing every detail – from the basement trowel scene to the human barbecue truck shot – with terrified fascination. I thought it was freaking awesome, and I wanted more.
I was four years old.