TCM: A Message of Farewell

 

Just two days ago, it was the 49th anniversary of the actual "date" which The Texas Chainsaw Massacre took place.  The day when Sally and Franklin and the gang, fell into the hands of the backwoods, cannibal family, and only one lived to tell the tale, or so the title card says...

So naturally, as is so frequently the case, I like to revisit beloved, classic films on special days (director birthdays, actor deathdays, film release dates, etc.).

And since my next door neighbor/buddy had never seen this legendary piece of cinematic history, I invited him over.  Me, him and my hubby on a Thursday afternoon, just after lunch.

All was going according to plan, and I was marveling (this time out) at some of the camerawork, some of the editing.  It's good stuff, notably that "under the swing" shot up to the porch of the house as we follow Pam in her short shorts.  And the editing of the Leatherface/Sally chase through the weeds -- impressive.

But when Sally is finally captured, and brought into the house for "the dinner scene" -- there was a shift.  Yes, the constant screaming from Sally (for good reason) is a lot to handle.  And yes, this was the precursor to "torture porn", before that was even a term.

Now.  I last watched the entire film a few years back.  I can't recall if it was around Hooper's death, or around Marilyn Burns' (Sally) death.  But I took it in.  And I found the dinner scene a little much to swallow.  It bothered me.  But I soldiered on and made my way to the (let's be frank) SPECTACULAR ending.

A couple of years back, I wrote an article for Tom Holland's Terror Time (here's the link) because I simply had to throw out there, that my sensitivities and sensibilities (when it comes to my long love affair with horror) have begun to shift.

I've never been a fan of torture porn, unless it's justified within the story.  And even then, I don't like it, but I'll tolerate it -- if the story finds it necessary.  Torture porn for torture porn's sake (I'm thinking Hostel) is not for me.

My five-plus years of reviewing films for the now-defunct Horror Freak News, threw a lot of films of this ilk, into my lap.  And I was hired to review them, so that's what I did.

And that was all fine and well.  One and done.  I'd never have to see them again.  But if I'm looking at the original The Texas Chainsaw Massacre -- a film I've loved for decades now -- a film which, upon first viewing at around age 13 -- undeniably disturbed me.  But I was excited by it.  A sociopath in the making?  Nah.  Just a kid, wanting that rush of fright, no matter how it came to me.

But as I grow older (wiser?) these things just can't give me the same pleasure.  And horror has defined me for four decades.  This love of this genre -- that's me.  So imagine my absolute sadness (is that the right word?) when one of my all-time favorite films, has begun to turn me off.

Up until the dinner scene, I was good.  Having a good time, again -- enjoying Hooper's mastery of the craft.  But then it all turned grotesque and unsettling.  Why would I want to sit through this?

My husband called it off first, saying he couldn't put up with this sequence, eventually even turning off the show.  In the other room, when he'd called it quits, there was no shutting off the shrieks and screams of Ms. Sally Hardesty.  There was no escape.

And rather than kick and scream and yell at him -- how DARE he cut off one of my favorite flicks, when a newbie was being indoctrinated at this very moment -- I was happy for the reprieve.

I mean, what?  What in the name of all that's holy, is/was going on here?

We didn't finish, even though I appreciate the final moments of the trucker, the hitchhiker's grisly demise and Sally's eventual escape (from Leatherface and from her sanity).

And I was okay with this.  And in that moment, I was angry (not at my husband) but that apparently, a particular era in my movie-watching life, had just come to a close.  Despite the sadness and yes, confusion about what had just happened, I knew that this would be the very last time I would ever see this film.

However I'd matured and/or changed over the last four decades, now offered a pretty firm stance that I could no longer put myself through this film.  

So I take to the keyboard on my (now) barely-used blog, and throw it all out there.  Do I call myself a wimp?  Do I call myself a snowflake?  Do I chalk this all up to the chaos of the world over the past several years, making me extra sensitive to everything, even those things familiar to me?  I just don't know.

But realizing that this recent visit with Sally, Leatherface and yes, even annoying Franklin -- would be my last -- fills me with great sadness, regret and -- loss, I suppose.

It is what it is.  Can a movie make my fragile state of mind even more fragile?  Apparently so.  And the question is, why would I allow that?  Why would I bring that experience back into my eyeline and into my brain pan -- again and again?

Answer is... I won't.

Thank you for the memories Mr. Hooper.  The scares.  The awe.  The undeniable artistry.  The chaos and the introduction to how powerful my beloved horror genre can be.

But I'm calling it quits.  This is a message of farewell...