Yeah. What exactly did you think the culminating film of the Halloween Film Fest would be? Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot? This blog is named for a line in John Carpenter's Halloween, so it should come as a surprise to no one that this is my go-to Halloween film—ever since I was a kid, in fact. It now transcends mere entertainment and has become a seasonal ritual—and if you don't happen to care for this movie, I have a few things I'd like to say to you. First of all, your taste is wrong. Don't give me any of your liberal relativist propaganda about everyone being entitled to an opinion... This is the kind of wrongheaded namby-pamby egalitarianism that starts with a person declaring his favorite jelly bean flavor and ends with Jews being marched into crematoriums in Nazi Germany. And before you start with your rationalist-based arguments that I am wrong here, I want you to remember that if you believe that everyone is entitled to an opinion, then you can't argue with good conscience that I'm not entitled to the opinion that you're not entitled to an opinion. I don't mean to sound totalitarian or anything, but I firmly believe that individuals who have shown themselves unable to form a competent opinion should have all of their opinions vetted by an enlightened council, to be chaired by yours truly. I think the competency of opinion-making will be determined by a standardized test of some kind, and the first question will be about country music. If you profess to enjoy it, you will lose your opinion privileges until your opinion has optimized in a Regional Cognitive Recalibration Center (RCRC).
Another thing I want to say to Halloween detractors is that the film is objectively awesome—which means it's not even subject to opinions. Do you have an 'opinion' that the sky is up? I don't think so. It's just a fact that is true by definition. It's the same way with Halloween. I hate to tell you what they do to people who start denying the basic facts of the natural world... but I will anyway: they either lock them in asylums or they make them become Republicans so that the rest of us can identify them for our own safety.
And now, a third thing I have to say to these people who have defective opinions and who willfully deny facts: Halloween is a part of me. If you start talking shit about this film, you are talking shit about me personally. The metaphysical border where my individuality ends and the movie Halloween begins doesn't really exist. We have blended together into an inseparable composite of subject and affect. You can't throw stones at a specific aspect of me; a thrown stone that touches my person in any way is an injury against the whole of me. Now I don't want my blog to start writing checks that my fists can't cash, but I dare any of you Halloween haters to step up on me. Bring what you got, bitches. I'll give you a titty-twister that'll have you preaching the Gospel According to Michael Myers like a giant crying baby-man. (You can run and tell that.)
Poor Donald Pleasence! As Dr. Loomis, he's the Cassandra of the Halloween saga. He never shuts the fuck up about how evil Michael Myers is. He actually literally refers to him as 'The Evil' in this movie—which most psychiatric journals tend to frown on, incidentally. He goes into that empty boardroom with the orange chairs and tells those two guys in labcoats that Michael should be kept locked up forever (because of his aforementioned evilness), but they're all, like, making cuckoo clock noises behind his back and stuff. As a consequence, Dr. Loomis actually has to go out on his own and start looking for Michael Myers. That's above and beyond the call of duty, if you ask me. I couldn't even get my therapist to answer my phone calls, let alone search the dark streets of Haddonfield for me.
When I was young, I was always a little bored by Dr. Loomis's scenes, but now that I am older and more mature, I think I understand his plight a little better. His is the Sisyphean task of speaking the truth to those who either don't want to accept it or are unequipped to understand it. I feel this way all the time when I'm spouting off truth hither and thither and everyone's, like, 'Life isn't as bad as you always say it is, David! Why are you such a pessimist?' Well, trust me—one day (and it's not far off) when this world finally devolves into violent anarchy because too many Mary Poppins types were complacent about humanity's wretchedness, these same naysayers will be pounding on my door, crying out, 'Why didn't you warn us? Why didn't you warn us?' But I will be deaf to their protests... because I'll be locked in my underground panic room.