Sunday, 10 July 2005 | Fifty

On Friday night Meghan and I saw A Nightmare on Elm Street in the theater, for the opening night of the Johnny Depp film festival. She'd only seen parts of it before (mostly, she remembered Johnny being sucked into his bed and being regurgitated as several gallons of blood). I, however, had seen it enough times that I once knew not only every line in the film, but how each syllable was delivered.

In the sixteen years that have passed since I last saw it, I've naturally forgotten details, and I've gained the brain of an adult, which, as it turns out, changes the film completely. I'd never realized that not only is the movie not scary, it's actually quite terrible, as well as unwittingly funny, and therefore awesome. It felt something like visiting the house you grew up in; it looks roughly like you remember it, but everything seems small and distorted.

For example. The main character, who was probably supposed to be 16 or 17, hadn't slept in seven (seven!) days, looked at herself in the mirror and said, "God...I look twenty years old." I'm almost positive she used to say Fifty.