Halloween (1978)

directed by John Carpenter

Alisha Gorder

Before this year, when time lost all meaning, the month of October meant the classic concoction—a witches brew if you will, and I know you will—of pumpkin beer and autumnal squash recipes and waiting in line for hayrides, or, once I moved to California, securing a tiny gourd from the supermarket because it felt counterintuitive to visit a pumpkin patch in short sleeves and eighty-degree weather. I think fondly about the jar of despised candy corn and fun-sized variety pack chocolate bars from Walgreens we used to keep on our office counter for all of us—even the mailman!—to sink our filthy, hungry hands into whenever we needed—and when did we not need?—a treat.

What a relief then to have at least a single constant this October: a re-watch of Halloween (1978).

I saw Halloween on the big screen a few years ago—a special showing timed to the holiday. I had come from a dinner of pumpkin curry and remember being deeply moved by how well the audience knew the movie, how the theater erupted into laughter when someone in the back shouted THE KEYS, OH, THE KEYS!! along with Jamie Lee Curtis (playing Laurie Strode), who was fumbling with hers at the door. I don’t feel like I am being dramatic when I say that it was, on some level, a spiritual experience, in that for one hour and thirty-one minutes, I was a part of something bigger than myself.

I don’t remember how many times I had seen Halloween at that point, but it was somewhere between once and the number of times it takes for a film to take on a background-noise sort of quality, which is how close it feels now. A part of me actually prefers this type of viewing experience, given that, as much as I love scary movies, it is at moments physically impossible for me to watch the ones I have not seen without my fingers covering my face.

With Halloween, though, the scenes that used to scare me are instead what calm me down, and I am always prepared because I know what’s coming. Adrenaline gives way to a warm, full-body feeling of familiarity, which, now that I think about it, is a lot like falling in love. Every re-watch brings with it the luxury of understanding each character’s fate before they do, and recognizing their mistakes and stupidity in a way that I am unable to, with foresight, see my own.

I still cringe when Lynda, Laurie’s good and soon-to-be-dead friend, takes a break from post-coital nail filing to let the sheets fall away and ask the ghost in the doorway—whom she thinks is her boyfriend Bob, dressed in glasses and a sheet—if he sees anything he likes. What she doesn’t know is that unfortunately Bob is downstairs, mounted with a knife to the kitchen wall. Alright, alright, where’s my beer?! she asks the ghost, getting annoyed, and I am embarrassed for her that these are her last few moments on Earth.

Similarly for Annie, who, not realizing that her car had been unlocked by someone else before getting in, has only a few seconds to be confused about why the windows are fogged up before a silent Michael strangles her from the back seat. This is the reason I turn around to check behind me before starting my car up at night. Even if I can’t change the outcome, at least I know to try.

The problem with writing about Halloween is that it feels a bit like writing about my personality, so much so that I have started to wonder if my dedication to John Carpenter’s film is, in fact, the essence of who I am, like the way I am known in my office (R.I.P.) as the person who, on their birthday, should not be bought a cake. This is how I have come to see myself—by my mundane likes or dislikes—but since I do not—I am ashamed to admit—hold as many strong opinions as maybe I, an almost thirty-year-old adult, should, I hope it can be understood that I must cling to the ones, however trivial, I do have.

I started panicking about this essay as early as August, when I told a friend I wasn’t sure what I had to say about my most beloved film. She asked what if she interviewed me about it. What would you ask, I gchatted back, no punctuation, as it was too desperate of times.

I would start off by asking why this is your favorite movie.

Film, I would correct her, and then be at a loss. Why not? I would respond, in our theoretical interview. I’ll see your favorite movie and I’ll raise you Halloween.

This is not to say I don’t have questions—I do, like, how did Michael learn to drive if he was locked up for fifteen years? Or, does his jumpsuit come in my size? And who decided on the timing of the opening scene? I mean when Michael’s sister goes upstairs to hook up with her boyfriend for one actual minute, maybe one minute thirty seconds if I’m being generous, before the boyfriend bounds back down telling her sure, okay, he’ll call. Judith deserved better! And I don’t just mean she shouldn’t have died!

I also don’t love the portrayal of female friendship, in that Annie and Lynda spend most of their time mocking Laurie for caring more about studying than boys and school dances (Oh, who needs books anyway? Lynda says, I don’t need books), but none of this, for me, diminishes the effectiveness of Halloween, or the entire franchise built on making one expressionless man walking something truly terrifying.

In Halloween, horror is inevitable—it’s only a matter of when. It is this anticipation that makes the film so memorable, the slow build the film relies on until the very end. Every phone call Laurie gets is only ominous because we know that it will eventually be Michael on the other end (don’t get me started on what the film proves about landlines, as Laurie’s friend Lynda is literally killed by one) and the last few scenes feel like the nightmares I have of being chased while my body moves as if it’s underwater, taking an aqua aerobics class. Everyone in Halloween is too slow, even for a murderer who is too cool to run.

Michael Myers is brutally relentless, and my re-watch this year made me realize just how much we are all, right now, Laurie Strode, and the year 2020 is Michael the night he came home. In the final ten minutes of Halloween, Michael is stabbed with a knitting needle, a clothes hanger, and a butcher’s knife, then shot six times before he falls from a second story window. After each and every attack, foolish Laurie stops to weep, thinking the worst is over, that she is free, but we see Michael in the background, rising from what appears to be the dead, and coming back for more. And then there are the sequels, which just keep getting made!

When, I wonder, will this year, in spirit, be over? When will Laurie catch a break? Will we shift seamlessly into talking about 2021, the way we have about 2020, or will it all blend into one? How much longer until I can quote Dr. Loomis (He’s gone from here! The evil is gone!), until a normal Halloween?

I recently tried watching a Halloween sequel I hadn’t seen before—The Curse of Michael Myers, starring Paul Rudd, in the role he is absolutely best known for—but it was not the experience I was looking for. I was stressed, watching in bed too late on a Thursday, avoiding looking directly at not-1970s gore. I turned it off halfway, and I'm not sure I'll be returning to it anytime soon. Why—knowing that no matter what the plot line is, Michael will, in the end, stay very much alive and wanting to play—would I, this year of all years, choose to subject myself to even more unknowns, lurking around corners, or in the shadows just out of frame? If the choice is between a fresh batch of scares and the ones I have learned to plan for, to anticipate, I will, yes, thank you, take yet another re-watch of the original Halloween.

Alisha Gorder lives and writes in Berkeley, California. She is a Senior Publicist at Catapult, Soft Skull, and Counterpoint Press.