#GLENNE HEADLY MAKING MR RIGHT UNDIES MOVIE#

How scared my kid self was when little Christina Ricci gets drunk and almost drowns in Mermaids. Two of the scariest films ever made, both shot as if aggressively intent on making the viewer as uncomfortable as possible ( The Witchesis even scarier than Don’t Look Now, I will not hear otherwise!) And the fact that it’s so long goneġ990: the year fish-eye lenses sicced horrors on my childhood years with The Witchesand Mother Goose Rock n’ Rhyme (the latter made entirely out of the “Whip It” video aesthetic). Not to anything specific, but just the very fact of being a kid. So when I put my VHS on, the sounds, the gold, the voices and their intonations all act as a sort of time machine. But DuckTales isn’t good enough for me to have revisited it outside of childhood, or for it to have had any sort of ongoing presence in my life. The Great Mouse Detective, some of Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, and the opening puppy scenes from Lady and the Tramp are other major examples. Bits of this are retained in a lot of the stuff I watched as a kid. There’s no way to fully describe this but, more than any other film, DuckTales: Treasure of the Lost Lamp acts as a sense memory key into what childhood felt like.

#GLENNE HEADLY MAKING MR RIGHT UNDIES MOVIE#

Not being able to look at the Rescuers Down Under poster we had in our room when I was a toddler because the movie scared me, so the poster scared me even though it’s just cliffs and sun That time circa 2012 when revisiting The Witches for the first time since childhood resulted in deep-seeded visual memories multiplied by body horror divided by public humiliation = a full-blown panic attack And, much like Glenn Close’s poison-face, Edward’s face frightens me, mostly during moments played for humor

My complicated feelings towards this undeniably gorgeous fairy-tale, & the ultimate manifestation of Tim Burton’s weirdo boy hang-up, stem from the sense that watching it is like being behind the glass wall of some fucked-up social experiment where I know the outcome going in but can’t do anything about it. Too many memories and moments connected to Home Alone to list, but here are a few: hours spent on parsing out the McAllister family tree “Snakes snakes, I don’t know no snakes” “maybe he committed suicide” “Kevin you’re such a disease” Kevin’s “What?” to his sister’s “you’re what the French call les i ncompétents“ hating Uncle Frank skipping the church scene as a kid is Marv hot? I think Marv might be hot reciting the film with the blind automation that comes with knowing it by heartĮdward Scissorhands making me super uncomfortable from a very young age. Ennio Morricone’s score as patient grim reaper, the slow zoom-in as we watch her piece together the truth, and the almost cartoonish way Close stands, falls, and convulses (her face is the same one she uses right before her “Nancy Reagan chandelier” death in Mars Attacks!) into her final moments bore into me so intensely that watching it again was like unearthing a long-buried strand of my psyche I’ll never shake off how powerful and permanent it felt to me as a child. It’s one of the films I watched most growing up, and it’s still my favorite Hamlet adaptation. My 4th grade obsession with the Mel Gibson/Franco Zeffirelli Hamlet, starting from a kids summer Shakespeare program I attended. The suspense I still feel watching Paul race back to his room Let this be a Misery memories dumping ground: the rush of the “Shotgun”-into-credits needle drop starting the exact moment that snowball hits the tree Caan’s subtle deadpan sass in almost every scene following the forced burning of his manuscript Reiner channeling Hitchcock so cleanly and effectively “But I didn’t cheer” “Bitchly cow corn” Pills, matches, and penguin chachkis “Paul, you can’t!” “Why not, I learned it from you” (mike drop, or rather match drop!). I used to watch this a lot as a teenager so I know every beat of its accumulative tension. Up top, flashes of the film intercut with Paul’s steadfast typing and an urgent section of score. I remember marveling at the typewriter centric menu (there’s a menu?!?). But growing up was peppered with film-specific imprints from 1990 releases. I turned 3 years old at the end of 1990 - too young to have seen the films that would appear in my childhood at the time of their release.

Glenne headly making mr right undies