On February 9th, 2015, my beloved father passed away unexpectedly. He was a deeply spiritual person whose awesome, incomparable influence is perhaps most responsible for my own spiritual convictions, as illustrated in my most recent post to this blog, over four months ago. I am not yet ready to put together and present the comprehensive tribute to my father that he so thoroughly deserves, nor to detail how this event has reshaped the rest of my life. And so instead I offer for all of your reading the Words of Remembrance that I spoke at his funeral on February 17th, 2015. I believe he helped me to write these words. I KNOW he helped me to speak them. And so I say to him, here and now, "I Thank You" and "I Love You".
To Jennifer and I, he was “Dad”. To all of you he was “Bob”, “Bobby”, “Uncle Bobby”, “Uncle Bob”, and “R.W.”. But despite all of the different hats he wore, we all knew the same man. Whether he had nothing or had it all, whether he was a child or an adult, whether before or after fatherhood changed his life. At every age and in every context, we all knew the same towering, iconic figure who had the strength of a legend, the integrity of a hero, and the heart of an angel.
Our Dad’s larger-than-life stature was genuine, but he was, like one of his heroes, John Wayne, truly a gentle giant. Underneath his powerful presence and brilliant wit was the precocious child who evolved without growing old. He never mellowed with age, and never lost the twinkle in his eyes that fueled a self-described “insatiable appetite for knowledge”. He devoured information from books, TV, and the internet, storing it in an extraordinary brain that never, ever lost its edge.
To everyone who knew him, our Dad was a living legend. But our Dad was also a profoundly sensitive human being. He always looked up with reverence to his sisters, Barbara and Diane, and viewed all of their children, and our Mother’s nieces and nephews, as his second children. He was a man of deep faith who neither doubted nor downplayed the role that angels played in guiding and protecting he and his loved ones. Chief among these guardian angels was my father’s father, Robert E. Jeffrey, whose name he gave me the honor of carrying. Jennifer and I were not fortunate enough to know our grandfather in life, but we grew up with his portrait watching over us everywhere we lived. And his presence was ever felt through our father’s love of him, and our father’s incurable sadness that his father passed away before his children were born. Jennifer and I now know that sadness, too. But we take our greatest comfort in knowing our Dad is now among the many angels who watched over him, including his Dad.
Dad provided counsel to countless family, friends, and colleagues, and was a natural mentor to the many, many people who looked up to him at every age and facet of life. He was the least judgmental man I have ever known, living by his own, defining motto: “I deal them in before I deal them out.” He believed in equality above all other principles, and my sister and I are blessed to have had a father who was truly and utterly devoid of prejudice. He loved nothing more than sharing happiness with others. He was an individual of boundless generosity who never felt more pride than when someone told him how comfortable they felt around him. Somehow our Dad was always surprised by how truly loved he was. But as with everything else in his life, he earned it. He earned people’s admiration. He earned people’s respect. And he earned his truly iconic reputation.
Our Dad was at his happiest when with Jennifer and I and our Mom, his soul mate and wife of 42 years. Our mother was his muse, the source of his strength, and the love of his life. Theirs is a love story that goes on eternally as he and our Mom continue to get us through this now. Our Dad raised Jennifer and I to only ever be ourselves, and provided unending support and encouragement to follow our dreams. We always felt loved and accepted, because we were.
Jennifer and our Mom and I have felt our Dad’s presence wrapped around us since the the day his journey here ended. And so on behalf of all four of us, I offer my condolences to all of you who loved him, for there are so very many people in this room for whom the loss is no less devastating than it is to us. I know our father is honored and amazed by not only the love and celebration of life, but by the wave of compassion and breathtaking generosity of so many people bringing comfort to our mother and Jennifer and I. We are overcome with gratitude to all of you, and so is our Dad.
This is a most unusual post. It does not deal with subject matter I normally talk about on this blog, or with anyone outside of my partner, my doctor, and my immediate family. This is my first post about my firm belief that I am an Aspergian (one with Asperger's Syndrome), and the devastating consequences that have resulted from my failing to realize this until well into my thirties. I can only imagine how many millions of people are struggling in their lives, in ways they can neither understand nor express, because they have no idea that they, too, are on the autistic spectrum. This first post is about the role that cultural stereotypes and my own constructed identity have played in making a diagnosis more difficult than I had expected. If not for the discovery of countless personal testimonials in books or online, I might still doubt myself about who I am and what it is that I am dealing with. Based on incredible feedback generated by past posts, I suspect many people out there are facing the same exact challenges that I am, and for the same exact reasons. And I hope that sharing my experiences may be beneficial to any of them who read this.
Part 1: August 29th, 2013
For the month leading up to the appointment, I was under the impression I would be undergoing a daylong series of neurological tests to determine if I, my family, and my referring physician were correct in the assumption that I have Asperger's Syndrome. I was so wrought with anxiety about what these tests would entail and how I would fare under them that I could not sleep for the two nights prior to what turned out to be a forty minute interview.
The appointment began at 8:30 AM. The neurologist came out to the waiting room to call me into an office where the evaluation began with a question along the lines of "so what brings you here today?". The neurologist was polite, but not especially friendly, with voice and body language suggesting to me that the neurologist felt I did not belong there and that this was a pointless exercise. Or, perhaps, that said neurologist was extremely tired. I told the neurologist about my family's encouragement in my being tested and my having many traits since childhood (as corroborated by relatives and many videotapes) up to the present. I told the neurologist that I have a family history of autism as well as bipolar disorder. I noted that while I had a cursory knowledge of Asperger's, I avoided researching too much so as not to impact my evaluation. I was asked a series of questions while the neurologist looked at a computer screen and typed. I had begun the interview by stating that it was my sister who approached me about Asperger’s Syndrome after viewing Temple Grandin's TED Talk and being reminded the whole time of me. I indicated that growing up in a protective bubble with my parents and sister in a happy but insulated childhood allowed me to feel more comfortable expressing myself but meant that it took me much longer to pick up on how people in the world outside of my home would react to such expression. I even mentioned my “Vogue Boy” video because I felt that the performance people were seeing on video did not match who I really was off camera. What countless viewers interpreted as brave was in many ways blissful ignorance. (Something closer to my personality, if still meant for audience approval, was put on display in another video shot that same summer in a “1-2-3 Video” message booth.) When asked about my early verbal communication, I referenced having been told over the years by my mother that I had uttered my first word at three months old when I greeted a housekeeper with a "Hi". The neurologist seemed skeptical. It may have been that this seemed out of character for a child with AS. But, that morning, I read the reaction as doubt that this event had even occurred. That at three months I had begun expertly mimicking sounds in response to specific stimuli seemed buried underneath overall suspicion, which fueled my subsequent insecurity about how my answers were being received. I made it clear that I am a recluse living with my parents in my childhood home and that I had seen hardly any other people for the last year. I stressed that crippling social anxiety, not a lack of desire to be working, was the reason why I cannot get a job and turn my life around in spite of all the people who look at me and see nothing more than a typical “loser” stereotype. When asked about my sleeping schedule, I revealed with my trademark New England/Catholic guilt/shame that I am most inclined to go to sleep around 5 AM and wake up around 2 PM. This counters society's expectations of "normal", and I've spent two decades trying to conform, but it has been my natural tendency since puberty kicked into high gear at the age of thirteen. I didn't get a verbal response. But the neurologist's non-verbal response seemed to me, once again, critical and vaguely judgmental. The most surprising interaction came about when the neurologist asked me if I dated or had girlfriends in high school. I told the neurologist that I’m gay, and that I knew this back then but was not out at the time. I told the neurologist that I did not cover this up by dating females, and emphasized that I was adamant about not leading girls on after a close female friend had had feelings for me which I could not reciprocate at a time when I could not be honest as to why. While typing, the neurologist stated, in regards to my being gay: “it was pretty obvious, but I have to ask”. At the time, I laughed, as I did not interpret it as hate speech. In hindsight, I feel this was part of an overall sense of dismissiveness that permeated the reactions to my answers. Asked about my ability to read other people being angry or upset, I noted that my tendency was the extreme opposite: I always fear having just hurt people and I always think people are left upset. I begin to question every move I've made and everything I've said and in what way I could have hurt someone enough with what I've said or done to potentially destroy them. Someone telling me they love me one minute doesn't mean I won't be convinced I have not earned their hate the next minute, hence a perennial need for assurance. I don't know how much of this I conveyed in the office because what was on my mind and how it came out seems to have been somewhat disconnected. But I'd like to think I made it clear that my empathy, while abundant rather than lacking, is still extremely abnormal. After giving my answers, I looked at my hands or looked at the wall or at the floor while the doctor looked at the screen and typed in silence. All of the neurologist's questions were met with honest answers. Most of these honest answers would indicate AS. But these were ultimately dismissed on the basis that: a.) I get along well with my immediate family, b.) I care intensely and obsessively about not hurting other people's feelings, and c.) "you seem amiable to me". According to the neurologist, my concern for the feelings of others indicated I did not have Asperger’s Syndrome, as “people with Asperger’s don’t really care if other people are happy”. The neurologist felt that my being close to my sister indicated I did not have Asperger’s Syndrome since the difficulty that people with AS have interacting with other people begins at home, and thus it would be unlikely someone with Asperger's would get along with family members. The neurologist felt that simple therapy would treat what the neurologist perceived as severe social anxiety disorder, which had not only impacted my ability to pursue a job but also my ability to keep one for more than a matter of weeks or months. The neurologist felt that my experiences being a gay teenager at an all boys’ Catholic school in the 1990s could be largely responsible. The neurologist suggested that I was likely still dealing with unresolved anxiety from my semi-closeted high school years. I reiterated something that I brought up early on in the evaluation, which is that I had been rapidly flapping my hands in states of intense thought or heightened excitement ever since childhood, when I did it openly, and that this is something I constantly still do in private as an adult. In the most alarming statement of the evaluation, the neurologist offered that this, too, was directly related to my homosexuality. “Most of my gay friends use their hands a lot” was the specific response. Once again, I laughed this off. The neurologist followed up this summation by noting that if I wanted to I could still make an appointment to undergo four hours of neurological testing to know for sure whether or not I had Asperger’s. At that point, I was anxiety-ridden, discouraged, and in doubt of my ability to understand anything about myself. I could not wait to get out of there, so I turned down the opportunity. I accepted the diagnosis despite my misgivings, I referenced my "Vogue Boy" video (no doubt a an unconscious suggestion to reconsider the diagnosis), and cheerily said goodbye with a big smile because I was so happy to be leaving.
Part 2: March 29th, 2014
Over six months after my evaluation, I discovered that a number of challenges faced by my partner and I are commonplace in relationships in one which one (or both) partners have AS. I proceeded to read books and testimonials from Aspergians writing in defense of their unique emotional make-up. Learning that perhaps intense over-empathy is being mistaken as a lack of empathy in a number of Aspies seemed to hit the nail on the head: this was EXACTLY what I was trying to communicate in the office that day about my skewed emotional make-up, but sadly to no avail. Maybe some Aspies, if not most, don't care if other people are happy. But many Aspergians assert that this oversimplification does not accurately describe all people with Asperger’s, and empathetic Aspies like activist/artist Alex Plankareclearly frustrated with not being heard--or, like myself andmany Aspergian females, are not being diagnosed at all. My going in for the evaluation in the first place was based not only on my own feelings, but also based on the opinions of my parents, my sister, and my life partner. (Subsequent research has lead me to believe that my aforementioned loved ones are themselves undiagnosed Aspergians, hence the surprising closeness with my family.) One month before the evaluation, I had been referred to the neurologist by my physician, who “would not be surprised” if I was found to have Asperger’s Syndrome based on knowing me through a handful of appointments over seven months. My physician also suspected that if I had AS, it would likely be a “mild” case. Subsequently, my fear about being evaluated was that my desire to please and my aptitude for unconsciously performing would suggest an outgoing personality and belie the fact that said “personality” is, in fact, a lifelong front. Sadly, my fear was realized. For seven months now, that morning of August 29th, 2013 has been a frequent source of pain and regret. I spent the preceding weeks anticipating a definitive neurological confirmation that would allow me to approach my life in a positive new way. I was given a diagnosis based on an interview, leading me to believe that I had apparently misunderstood myself for my entire life. I wore a Michael Jackson t-shirt into the office that day, because it was his birthday, or “Michael Jackson Day”, as I call it. Michael has been a guiding influence on me since my birth, and only more so since his death, and going in I assumed he was on the autistic spectrum, too. When I was told Aspies don't care about the happiness of others, I realized he couldn’t be one either. He, too, was obsessed with other peoples' happiness, and like myself, his isolated and intensely creative life was fueled by this aim to please, from his early success as an ultra-precocious child through his troubled adulthood. I emphasized where I was at in my life, and not without a great deal of shame. I was thirty one, living with my parents, and had become a recluse. I was too anxious to drive a car or see people, and thus incapable of interviewing for a job or shopping around for a suitable therapist. I was spending my days writing by myself and my nights watching movies by myself. It is an endless cycle of solitude that is usually only broken by extended video chats with my partner, whom I feel is a fellow "Aspie" and who is also presently living with his family in a nearly identical situation. I have since learned that my present life, as described to the neurologist, is sadly not an unfamiliar manifestation of undiagnosed Asperger's Syndrome. I am, like so many other undiagnosed adults, suffering the inevitable state of disconnection and uncertainty that comes with not knowing "what's wrong with me" in relation to the rest of the human race. If I had realized just how NOT alone I was, and just how RIGHT I was to be there that day, I would never have turned down the opportunity to undergo the very testing I thought I was showing up for in the first place. I went in for an evaluation based on traits that I saw in myself for years prior to the low point that my life had sunk to. I had no idea that day that said low point is further indication that I am not only correct in my assumption, but would have benefited immeasurably from having been diagnosed years earlier. And I would give anything to have known all of this last August. Prior to the evaluation, I was shocked and relieved to learn that rapidly flapping my hands while in a state of excitement brought about by intense inwardness--something which consistently attracted amusement throughout childhood before becoming a hidden, embarrassing trait ever since--is a defining trait of individuals on the autistic spectrum. But I did not know the word for this, “stimming”, until after my evaluation. I suspect that my use of grandiose hand gestures while explaining myself, rather than the stimming that I was attempting to explain, is what the neurologist reacted to. Several days later, my sister sent me a YouTube video of a young boy with Asperger’s whose mother asked him to demonstrate and explain his stimming. His behavior, his demeanor, and his description of his internal experience while stimming illustrated everything I had been attempting to communicate in the office and apparently could not. I saw myself in this child, as did my sister. Subsequently, the mortified reaction of everyone with whom I shared the doctor's "most of my gay friends use their hands a lot" statement preempted my own shock in being given such a stereotype-based response to such an incredibly common behavior of individuals on the autistic spectrum.
I would like to stress that I do not believe that the neurologist I spoke with was motivated by any homophobic inclination. With that said, I feel that my being gay was way too prominent an issue in this evaluation. Addressing my sexuality as “pretty obvious” early on and later writing off my stimming as behavior not unlike “most of my gay friends” was troubling, to me and to many of my loved ones.I have always struggled with social relationships, in predominantly gay as well as predominantly straight environments. Thus I do not agree with the theory that my problems today are directly rooted in my Catholic high school years, particularly not after fifteen subsequent years of being relentlessly open about my sexuality and in a decade-long relationship with another man. Two of my oldest friends, neither of whom I see very often but both of whom have been in my life since our youth, both separately joked that I had gone in for Asperger’s testing and been diagnosed as gay.
Based on the neurologist’s facial expressions and body language, I interpreted skepticism, condescension, and general irritation. I took the neurologist's "so what brings you here today?" as an implication that this was an audition as much as an evaluation. I proceeded accordingly, answering the questions and reading the signs sent by someone who struck me as going down a checklist rather than exhibiting concern for what I was saying and where it was coming from. Throughout the evaluation, I felt that the neurologist was looking at me as though I was looking at Asperger's as a scapegoat for my neurosis. I may very well have been correct in this assumption. Or I may very well have entirely misread the non-verbal cues before me. If indeed I completely misread the neurologist, then I feel all the more convinced that I have Asperger's. But regardless of the accuracy of my interpretation, by the time the forty minutes was up, I felt browbeaten and stripped of any sense of self beyond being gay and seemingly “amiable”. I also felt like such a neurotic stereotype that I turned down the tests I had wanted to have done so as to avoid further embarrassing myself in the eyes of the neurologist.
I know that I have Asperger’s Syndrome. This is based not only on the overwhelming extent to which I can personally identify with the experiences of diagnosed individuals, but also based on the observations and memories of people close to me whom I have knowingly or unknowingly revealed my true self to in the years between my being an ahead-of-his-years child and a what-went-wrong-with-him adult. I also know that my evaluation had a catastrophic effect on my self-esteem. I feel that a big part of my reaction in this regard was based on the fact that the evaluation seemed bound to end in dismissal from the get-go. That such focus would be placed on my sexuality suggests that perhaps my feigned demeanor had a bigger influence on my diagnosis than did my honest answers to the questions I was asked. Since that day, I have struggled to feel like myself again. But thanks to incredible blogs like SeventhVoice, communities like Alex Plank's WrongPlanet, and activists/authors like Temple Grandin, Maxine Aston, and John Elder Robison, the voices of people whose life experiences I most relate to are leading me out of the dark. Up to now, this blog has primarily been a platform for me to worship my favorite stars, rave about my favorite movies, celebrate my favorite pop culture anniversaries, and generally indulge in my perceived narcissism--all indicators of Asperger's, I might add! Thus, you may rightfully be asking why I would suddenly feel the need to discuss extremely personal details about my mental health. And that brings me to the questions I’ve been asking myself in the days leading up to writing this post. Is it not possible that cultural stereotypes of gay men as high-strung and idol-obsessed has permeated science and medicine, and to such an extent that autism is being confused with homosexuality? Is it not possible that in the seven months since I accepted my diagnosis that numerous other LGBTQ people have accepted similar diagnoses, putting aside their self-understanding in favor of an expert opinion? And, more importantly, is it possible that doing so has lead to the same depression, anxiety, and overwhelming self-doubt that has swallowed up the last seven months of my own life? I have only myself to blame for letting anxiety and self-doubt hold me back from giving a “Yes” answer when offered the testing I so wanted. And so I blamed only myself for the last seven months. Now, I anxiously await the opportunity to finally undergo neurocognitive testing in July. I could not be more excited about Summer 2014, and I pray it provides the assurance and optimism I sought out in Summer 2013. In the meantime, I will fight to believe in MY understanding of myself, even if it means fighting against the real or perceived skepticism of others. I stand alongside everyone waging a war against such doubt, and will keep my comrades up to date through future posts.
Now that this blog has been given its third and final (I swear!!) name, I thought I would shake things up a bit. Nothing so crazy as dropping the pink text color or updating the general appearance to a post-1997 look, of course. But there's a lot I've been wanting to say, so rather than post a succession of lengthy blog posts, I thought I'd post this variety pack of short ones.
The Twentieth Anniversary of My Obsession With Anniversaries
The hits package that redefined my life. Like, seriously!
January '14 marked the 20th anniversary of my obsession with anniversaries. My first-time viewings of Starman, The Shining, Dawn of the Dead, and Working Girl on blistery and/or snowy Friday nights in January '94 mobilized in me a 1980s nostalgia that never went away. But it wasn't just the movies I watched that month, it was also buying THE album: Totally 80s, the 2-CD Razor & Tie compilation that was advertised on TV all the time before becoming the soundtrack to most of my life in the sixth grade. From 1994 on I was fetishizing every aspect of '80s pop culture while lambasting everything I could about the '90s. However, happy Friday nights ritualistically spent at the local multiplex limited my aptness for thrashing then-contemporary film.
It is now a time capsule for what the world looked like in March '94,
but The Paper also remains grown-up Hollywood fare at its most brilliantly entertaining.
For the Class of 2000, 1994 was the year when the sixth grade ended and the seventh grade began. Thus the year closed with my being knee deep in adolescent angst, which only kept me going back into the past. I continually found myself disappointed by reality, so I was constantly choosing fantasies that were constructed in another era. My pre-pubescent childhood had been so happy, and the spirit of the '80s was so inextricably linked to my own soul, that I lamented the decade until it became an over-idealized Heaven that I dreamed of dying and going back to. I was not unaware of this being unhealthy, but that didn't make it any less painful to push forward, not when I discovered that being a teenager was to be a lot less pleasant than I had been imagining in the '80s. Instead of forging a new path that would make childhood dreams come true, I clung to the past as an escape while reality came crashing down in the present. And, for better or for worse, I've been inclined to do this ever since.
I related to Tess McGill when I was twelve. I still do now.
And I'll bet many of you reading this feel the exact same way.
A Sorta-Facade On The Verge of Sorta-Crumbling
There has been so much that I have wanted to communicate through this blog over the last fifteen months, but during said fifteen months my life has been in a major state of upheaval. Actually, it was in upheaval when I started this blog back in 2011. But way back then, things in my life were just starting to turn upside down, and the coinciding mini-phenomenon of “Vogue Boy” allowed me to escape reality like never before. For a moment in Summer '11, it felt like my dreams of being an artist and a star had been instantly realized when that video achieved its peak popularity in one weekend. It was during that delightfully manic moment that I quickly decided to become a blogger, and my early entries here are thus defined by an optimism, and even a sense of fulfillment, that apparently represents me at my purest.
The-blog-formerly-known-as-RobWorld has been a tremendous outlet in the three years since since then, for it has allowed me to unlock and release parts of myself through the written word in a way that I could never do within the format of a screenplay. But for well over a year, I have not been inclined to do any unlocking or releasing, for I have discovered that my life experiences are a lot less vivid in my mind after I make them public here. And, as evidenced in past entries, my memories, and the role they play in shaping my creative output, are too precious to me to be sacrificed.
On some level, I've gotten more screenwriting done by not blogging. But on most levels it has denied me an outlet that I need: not only to write, but to be read. I might not have a huge readership on here, but the feedback I've received in personal messages has been too awesome to be ignored. There is no better feeling than knowing a handful of people were affected by work that they personally related to, or which made them look at a movie or a person or a similar life experience in a new light. I don’t know if I’ll start writing again more regularly, because I thought that that would be the case last November....and it wasn’t. But I think this has a lot to do with my wanting to make every post an event, in turn defeating the purpose that this blog serves, for me, in the first place. I am a hopeless neurotic, still in the middle of a challenging and annoyingly long life chapter, and I need a place to let all this shit out. Some people go to therapy. I go to the stage. And that’s exactly what this blog is to me.
From Sixteen To Thirty-Two: "The 2014 Project"
Like the film itself, I'll NEVER forget the first time I saw this trailer!
When I was sixteen, I realized that Wes Craven's Scream was released exactly eighteen years after John Carpenter's Halloween, which itself had been released exactly eighteen years after Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho. Years later, I would realize that Val Lewton and Jacque Tourneur's Cat People’s limited release in December 1942 meant it was the movie that launched this every-eighteen-years cycle. Since then, I’ve been anticipating "The 2014 Project", a film that would, like the aforementioned four films, inject the horror-viewing experience with enough wit and suspense to change the cinematic landscape and redefine the genre for another two decades.
The most bewitching of Hollywood films and
possibly the most influential horror movie ever made.
Since the late '90s, I have secretly hoped that the Universe would see fit to choose me to write this 2014 horror film, and much of my creative life has been spent preparing myself to be worthy of such an opportunity. Alas, I've proven far more adept at writing screenplays than actually getting them made into movies. And without ever seeing your work on some screen, one can hardly feel like a real screenwriter. So last year I attempted to put work of which I remain as proud as ever temporarily behind me, and to instead take a stab at crafting "The 2014 Project". I spent the entirety of 2013 working on eight different scripts, each of which I had hoped could potentially reinvent "the American horror film", but none of which ever made it to their respective finish lines. By New Year’s Eve, I was forced to admit defeat. I was proud of the work I had done, and confident that one day the characters and story elements from this arsenal of partial completion would find their way into my future projects. But by no means did I come close to striking the gold that I was digging for.
If every attempt at crafting a pure suspense picture was even half
as effective as Halloween, the world would be a much better place.
It was not until the very end of 2013 and the very beginning of 2014 that a burst of renewed inspiration and ambition (my favorite cocktail) launched me on a new path. My dream, in this easy-to-shoot-but-hard-to-distribute world of modern indie filmmaking, was that the work flowing out of me would find its way into the right hands, and a quickly-realized project (Cat People, Psycho, Halloween, and Scream were themselves low-cost/high-speed shoots) could theoretically find its way onto a VOD platform or into an early 2015 film festival. But nearly a third of the way into 2014, I'm inclined to believe that that dream will not come true....and I'm okay with that. It’s very likely that a great horror film will come along and make the impact I was hoping to make while I'm still pining away, and if that happens, I can finally say I was right all along. And hopefully, if that happens, 'my little horror film', whenever it makes its way to the screen, will still earn itself a place in the hearts of like-minded movie lovers. But for now, I think I'll put my faith in "The 2032 Project": I have good reason to believe I might be capable of writing something worthy of comparison to the aforementioned films when I'm fifty. In the meantime, I intend to enjoy the writing process instead of mourning my failure to be where I thought I would be when I was half the age that I am right now.
No movie-going experience has come close to the first two times I saw Scream on the big screen. And I'm 99.44% sure that this will always be the case.
Furthermore, assuming that the every-eighteen-years cycle really does extend into this century, I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for the film that will ultimately redefine our collective concept of modern horror movies. There are already a few potential contenders in the pipeline, and 2014 has only just begun...
I was planning to finally end the five month hiatus from my
blog by once again posting for "Confessions Day", the anniversary of the U.S.
release of Madonna’s Confessions On A Dancefloor. Then I figured I’d give that
a rest since, well, I’ve already confessed enough. Besides, I’m working on a
little something for another upcoming Madonna anniversary that I thought would
make a more impactful comeback post.
Alas, The Universe had something else in mind: an entry that feels like déjà vu.
Once again, I
discovered a piece of thought-lost writing from my Catholic high school years: in this case, a short assignment written in a notebook for religion class. And, wouldn’t you know, it was written just a few desks away
from “James”, the straight classmate whose lone year at my alma
mater came to define my adolescence. So I thought I’d precede the formal relaunch of my blog by posting my irrepressibly honest fifteen year old self’s every handwritten word. Try to keep in mind, this was written by a 9th grader in love. But, also, that nearly all of it of it still applies to me today.
That, for
better or for worse, is my Confession ‘13.
Bob Jeffrey
1/22/97
Learning
Family/personality
Where You Are In Faith Experience
How Is Freshman Year Going For You?
1
I’m not really a smart person. I get distracted
a lot while doing my homework, and I usually take a long time because of this.
I often “drift off” in class, and will sometimes start falling asleep while
taking notes or listening to a lecture.
I am kind of a bizarre person. I always try to reach out and help people, but I keep a lot of things “bottled up”, so it can result in a short-temper. I think I might be manic-depressive. I had a horrible experience in junior high, and I believe this brought about manic-depression. I am very sensitive and I am always worried about what other people think of me. I often make myself think that they think bad things about me, and I make myself believe I am a horrible person. I try to be as outgoing as possible, but in reality I am very shy and self-conscious. I am very close to my family.
I used to go to church just about every week, but I haven’t gone in a long time. Still, I believe in God and Jesus Christ and I pray all the time about various things. Though I attend CCD, I find that I miss it often. Still, I consider myself a very religious person.
So far, freshman year is a blast! I hated junior high, and so far high school is fantastic. After my Jr. High experience, I became really shy and a loner, but I am gradually getting back to the way I used to be. I want so bad to be popular, though. I think that right now I am average. I’m not popular, but not unpopular. I have a lot of people who I consider my friends, and no one here is mean to me, that I can recall. Fortunately here there isn’t as much of a rat race. People all seem to be on the same level, like everybody here is friends with everyone else. Hope that won’t change now that I said it.
Suffice to say, the high I was on when I wrote this certainly did not last for the rest of high school, and I would never again take such an unnecessarily revealing approach to in-class assignments. Or, if I did, I blocked it out of my memory. So allow me to close by dedicating this performance of one of my favorite "Confessions" tracks to the inner fifteen year old in us all.
Today marks twenty-five years since the U.S. release of Gary Sherman’s Poltergeist III, a film that has been derided far too much over the last quarter century. It bombed at the box office before terrifying a generation of small-screen viewers (specifically, my generation), and is most infamous for being released four months after the death of its lead actress, Heather O’Rourke.
An unbelievably talented child star who would have
evolved into a truly great adult star, Heather O’Rourke was so synonymous with the role of "Carole Anne Freeling" that her tragic death before filming was complete seems almost
like a ghastly extension of this uniquely nightmarish film. Although savaged by critics upon its initial
release, I assume that it has since earned itself a place high in the ranks of 80s cult horror films. It’s as frightening a picture as Gary Sherman’s earlier
80s gems, the darkly comic voodoo masterpiece Dead and Buried and the gritty prostitution thriller Vice Squad. The cast is uniformly exceptional, especially the pitch-perfect
performances by its two late stars. Heather O’Rourke was at her most controlled
and impressive by the third film, and once again Zelda Rubinstein expertly walks the fine line between genius and camp as
filmdom’s most famous medium: the legendary “Tangina”. Despite its stellar performances and effectiveness as a relentlessly claustrophobic and surreal horror film, it does have its fair share of unintentionally hilarious shortcomings. This is best illustrated in
this priceless (negative) review of the film by the late, great Gene Siskel
& Roger Ebert, arguably one of the funniest segments ever broadcast on their classic TV series.
Poltergeist III was a film that I did not see until my
life-changing Summer of 1991. For years I’d only been
allowed to either gaze at the 80s horror movie covers at the video store or “settle” for classic movies of the 30s and 40s like Bride of Frankenstein and I Walked With A Zombie. But then one day near the end of the third grade my Dad
told me he would let me
see Alfred Hitchcock’s Psychoif I put more effort into Little League. (I was
never one for sports, so movie privileges were often an incentive during my thankfully brief baseball chapter.) I can’t remember if he showed it to me or I watched it by myself, as
I most remember subsequently watching it over and over that summer. I was not frightened, but I LOVED everything about it,
and consider it a great blessing that the film which birthed modern horror should be my own starting point. Viewing Poltergeist and its sequels followed shortly
thereafter. Like Psycho, I watched the Poltergeist movies so many times that
summer that memories of the repeat viewings all absorb into one another. But unlike
Psycho, the Poltergeist movies freaked me out.
Two years later, my
wonderful 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Quinn, had everyone in class create our own magazines. My magazine was called Boston Entertainment, and was a mish-mash of
Entertainment Weekly and PremiereMagazine—literally. I spliced ads from both into my magazine, along with a few reviews by my favorite local film critic, James Verniere of The Boston Herald, with full credit of course. In
addition to the collage of cut-outs and capsule reviews, the
magazine contained a number of articles which I wrote myself, including this one about the future of the American horror film. I rediscovered this
“magazine” in my parents’ attic and thought I would share my favorite article in honor of Poltergeist III's 25th Anniversary and Boston Entertainment's 20th (!) anniversary. I still remember the urgency with which I
wrote it: as someone who aspired to make horror films, I felt that my own future was at stake. I wanted to insure that a
market would still exist when I was old enough to make my dreams come true, and
my fears in those dismal days of early 90s horror were all too valid. The
genre has come a long way since. But now corporate influence, economic turmoil, changing technology, and unprecedented piracy are all drowning out the voices of
independent filmmakers. Indeed, there is once again
reason for those of us pursuing a career in horror films to proceed with
caution. And so, without further adieu, here is another blast from my past, peppered with a bit of present-day commentary .
My lone foray into magazine publishing.
The Horror of
Horrors:
Will Scary Movies Be
Here For Us To Look
Back
On?
By
Robert Jeffrey
Have
you ever heard of “Jaws”? You probably have, because it IS a classic. Still,
have you ever heard of the movie “Leprechaun”? In my opinion, it is a true
horror, blending comedy and scary special effects to make it perfect, but just
the title probably sounds strange to you, although some people are familiar
with it. “Jaws” was a box office smash, but “Leprechaun” was out for less than
a week in Peabody.
Alas, I would never again rave on about Leprechaun
as much as I did at the age of eleven.
These
are just two examples of what people may realize is happening in theaters, or
may not care to notice. What is it that makes a horror movie popular? Is it
special effects, suspense, black humor, or a hip, cool style? The reason I
don’t mention a “foundation” such as a bestselling novel is because many
Stephen King movies, such as “The Dark Half”, are movies that are not only
bombs at the movies, but I don’t even consider most of them to be real horrors.
Sorry, I don't know why I was so mean to Stephen King adaptations! Worse yet, I hadn't even seen The Dark Half when I wrote this--and it's a GREAT movie.
Maybe
special-effects is the way to go. In the “Nightmare on Elm Street” series, part
three made forty-seven million (1987), and part four made forty-nine million
(1988). Both of these movies were the most popular of the “Nightmare” movies,
and these were both crammed with mind-boggling special effects. Still, other
movies like “Dr. Giggles” also had fairy gory special effects, but it didn’t
quite pack ‘em in the aisles.
I haven't seen Dr. Giggles since childhood, and it MIGHT be a terrible movie...
but, to this day, I still LOVE the ad campaign!
Maybe
it is a campy style. In the movie “Fright Night” which starred Fox 25 regulars
William Ragsdale of “Herman’s Head” and Amanda Bearse of “Married…With
Children”. I found this 1985 movie which was supposedly a hit at the ticket booths
to have real wit, suspense, comedy, some great FX, and camp. Yes, I found this
movie to have really cool style that most Stephen King horrors miss by a mile,
which made this one of my favorite, if not my very favorite, horror movies.
Still, some hated this movie, so don’t rely on modern gimmicks.
My #1 favorite scene in my #1 favorite vampire movie of all time.
(I think it's safe to say I still love Fright Night as much as I did at eleven.)
Maybe
it is suspense. Lots of suspense movies get better reviews by critics and make
more money at the box office than some horrors. Still, that doesn’t mean
horrors don’t have suspense. The classic “Jaws” was not only one of the biggest
(meaning made the most money) movies of all time, but it keeps audiences on the
edge of their seats. Another horror noted for its superb suspense was the
terrifying “Halloween”. Not only was the music in this just as bad as “Jaws”,
but its great acting by Jamie Lee Curtis (“My Girl”) and Donald Pleasance (The
1979 version of “Dracula”) and its plot that WAS creative at this time, the
movie is excellent.
The night I saw Halloween deserves its own blog post,
because it's been one of my biggest cinematic/life influences ever since.
As we
see, there are lots of good reasons to see a horror, but if you see a bad one,
the rest you’ll see will be bad too. With that in mind, here are the horrors
that I consider to be the best (although some have the gore that I don’t
usually like):
It would not be until the 6th grade that I saw most of the great American horror films--hence that pitiful list. But with the exception of Dr. Giggles and Leprechaun, I still LOVE those movies, and Wes Craven's A Nightmare On Elm Street remains my favorite horror movie of all.
