When a friend tagged me in an article from The Hollywood Reporter stating horror director Wes Craven had died at the age of 76. The culprit: brain cancer. I immediately felt my stomach drop, the nape of my neck get flush, and a little twinge of panic. I clicked hurriedly and hoped it would lead me to a picture saying “You got owned” or a Rick Roll. But no, it was true and I felt the tears well up.
Alright, so I didn’t completely melt down into a sob fest but several times this evening I’ve had to hold back a few. But why am I so upset? I didn’t know Wes Craven, I never met the guy (and now I sadly never will), but I still felt the hurt punch me in the gut.
Like many, A Nightmare on Elm Street was my gateway drug into horror. My friends still laugh at the time we watched it on Big Chuck and Little John and I was curled up squeezing pillows into me as the fright flooded over me. I’ll never forget Tina’s pale face in the body bag, Robert Englund pressing himself into the wall above Nancy, or Johnny Depp’s pretty face getting splattered all over his bedroom. In short, Wes Craven terrified 10-year-old me and for that I teeter on the line of tears.
As I got older I experienced the much grittier terrors of Last House on the Left and The Hills Have Eyes that Craven had to share. And even if his later work faltered a little, he still had the balls to keep trying and making the kind of films he wanted to make. Craven was sheltered as a child and as an adult he blossomed into a legendary filmmaker who wasn’t afraid to change genres and make mistakes.
RIP Wes, I’m devastated.