Before you judge me, I promise, I didn’t know it was a horror novel before I read it. First I watched Stranger Things, then I read Slade House by David Mitchell. Being late to the game, as I tend to be, I’m sure my already unasked for insights were even less interesting to people who had watched, talked about and moved on to the next thing weeks ago.Īnd now, what would otherwise have been a minor, behavioral aberration is starting to feel like a pattern. How clever! How Weird! “It’s like, if Spielberg gave David Lynch a script and told him to go wild, but the whole thing still had to make sense, it would be Stranger Things!” I loudly shouted at baristas and joggers and other unfortunates in my neighborhood. “How is going to gore, or mutilate, or terrorize the (flat and poorly written) characters?” Frankly, my dear…Īnd yet, as so many afflicted with the Netflix virus, I sat transfixed as the Duffer Brothers unraveled their nostalgia-horror story, Stranger Things. As a genre I find it boring, derivative, and generally lacking in imagination. I don’t read horror novels, I don’t watch horror movies and if I played video games, they wouldn’t be called Resident Evil.
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