The sequence in the graveyard at the beginning of this movie laid the groundwork for the sense of unease that lingered in me for the rest of the film and beyond. The sounds of the dead being deterred from their final rest churns the undigested goblets of food in my stomach. The screeching of the coffin doors getting pried open, the rusty hinges threatening to give way and break, the shovel frantically digging at the ground for the decaying prize underneath, it really takes me back to the first time I saw TCM. It changed my life.
The first time I saw it I couldn’t sleep that same night. I tossed and turned but couldn’t tune out the disturbing images TCM impregnated my fragile mind with. I watched it by myself, filled with dread; this was beyond jump scares and cheap gimmicks, and I couldn’t shake it. I felt anxious. I felt like maybe TCM burst my little safety bubble. No film has ever rooted itself more deeply in the pit of my stomach. And years after feeling the full force of it, and coming back to watch TCM hundreds of times since, like a junkie coming back for a fix time and time again, I can confidently say that no movie will ever have that very same effect on me again. Where my enjoyment of the macabre was a flirty relationship before, after TCM it was a fully blown romance. So now you know what to blame!