The Shining Object in the Eye of the Storm

Anyone my age or older will remember when Twister came to theaters and blew us all away with its cinematic visuals and cutting-edge computer graphics. It was hard not to be wowed back in those days; Jurassic Park, Titanic, True Lies --okay, maybe not True Lies. But seriously, even The Blair Witch Project had me thinking it was real footage for weeks of sleepless nights before I found out the truth. I was relieved to find out those young victims were merely actors. But really, the damage had already been done. I still sleep with a nightlight.

While I suppose the following argument is a matter of opinion, to help hammer my point across, I prefer to state it as fact. The most influential element of Jan de Bont’s 1996 film, Twister isn’t Bill Paxton's frequent whining quotes. Which still echo in my daily thoughts, chief among them: "Jonas, you sonofabitch!" Out of interest, the Jonas in this reference is played by Cary Elwes, who, for ease of confusion, should change his name to The Guy Who Played Westley In The Princess Bride. Paxton’s whining is favorable to the film, but Twister’s most impactful component is when another, entirely different movie is playing on the big screen of a drive-in theatre in the background. The screen, stretched out before dozens of occupied, parked cars, displays two young girls addressing the camera, beckoning an even younger, small boy to "come play with us."

Twister (1996) Directed by Jan de Bont

During this moment in the film, I am always torn away from Twister, far more interested in the movie within the movie. As the cutting-edge, computer graphics pick up speed in the form of an F5 tornado and tear Jack Nicholson apart, even as Jack, himself, is tearing apart a locked door to savage his frantic wife with an axe, I am distracted by the better film being destroyed by the pretty good, but not great film and its big, digital tornado.

This embedded movie, so rudely interrupted by the apex of action in Twister, is none other than The Shining, a true masterpiece of cinematic horror. Back in 1996, Milk Duds stuck in my molars, I finished Twister, of course, and even ended up seeing it again less than a week later. But what really wowed me --what really left an impression-- wasn't Helen Hunt's statuesque jawline or her surprisingly banging body in that sleeveless top. It wasn't even those flying cows, which annoyingly inspired cinema-wide laughter. It was that brief, interrupted scene in The Shining. It was that magic moment when I did not know it yet, but I would soon be baptized in a lake of blood bursting forth from an open elevator. It was that glimpse at something horrifying, something majestic and wonderful; two little girls calling out to me to come play with them, me, utterly bewitched, obeying their command, renting The Shining from the local Blockbuster Video, and shattering my adult movie virginity with the utmost, exalted, horror motion picture that has yet to be spun on a reel.

I never would have guessed Jack Nicholson would outlive Bill Paxton. I wouldn't have guessed that both of these older actors would outlive the younger Philip Seymour Hoffman --the talented, upcoming actor that I first came across in his comic-relief role in Twister. I never would have guessed that nearly thirty years later I would still sometimes hold my pillow at night and think of Helen Hunt, circa 1996. But one thing I would have outright known --no need to have guessed-- is that The Shining did more than entertain me that night I first watched it in the dark, alone, at age twelve. It did more than make its mark, more than have a light impression on my adolescent, influential mind. It moved me, not by mere degrees, but by a mammoth, continental drift deep within my soul. It shook me awake, slapped sense into me, or maybe just downright fucked me up. But whatever tectonic shift in my personal core resulted in the new me, post my initial viewing of The Shining, one thing is for certain: I will never be the same.

REDRUM, written out and reflected back spells MURDER. Upon reflection, seeing The Shining in my preteen years murdered any chance that I would experience a horror movie with any true conviction of fear as an adult. That night, in the dark  --my father and big brother yet to arrive home from their trip to Seattle, my mother asleep in the far, upstairs corner of our home-- when I huddled in our spider-infested basement, the moon shining through the window well which exposed me to anyone who may be watching from outside, I set the bar for being scared while watching a movie that is not only terrifying, but absolutely brilliant, the highest of quality.

That kind of fear is precious. Rare and magnificent. If it was available for sale, I’d spend a fortune and stock the shelves of my soul. As it is now, I will cherish my memory crafted by horror. I will store my open wound in a storm cellar, safe from whatever twister comes my way.

I will always, delightedly, bear my beautiful scars.