Wuss

Over the coming week I am likely going to be watching the film Krull. Count Krull among those movies of my childhood that left indelible marks seared into my grey-matter. In this instance, the image of spiked walls closing in, a jagged black skewer running through the stomach of one character.

Over the past few years I’ve revisited the sites of many of my childhood traumas, and there sure are many to chose from. Being a bright-eyed, clean-livered young lad with a graphic imagination, I was routinely emotionally eviscerated sitting down in front of the Sunday afternoon presentation. Beetle Juice, The Goonies and, to a lesser extent, The Terminator all left me with horrifying memories. In most cases actually re-watching this stuff in my early twenties has done little to dilute those half-real, half-imagined mental images. Worse was catching The Golden Child on television last year, and discovering that the most frightening film memory I have (blood oozing around a spoon pushed into a bowl of porridge) belonged to a ridiculous 80’s adventure comedy for kids. I’m still certain there’s a secret 18s version of that film floating around somewhere.

And so, this week, another closet is opened. Krull is apparently a children’s movie too, but I’m skeptical. I suppose it’s always possible that something will snap. Like an old war veteran I’ll collapse on exposure, reverting back to my five-year-old self. There’s a part of me that wouldn’t mind. I would eat ice-cream and have baths on weeknights. If my posts next week resemble something more like Feaverish you’ll know the reason why.