Thanks to Netflix’s belief thst I am interested in the films of the 1990s–mostly because I am–I watched Candyman tonight.

This was the first time I’ve watched it in full since the first time I watched it.

It was my junior year of high school. 1994. Saturday night, around 1 a.m. All the lights in the house were off.

I did that final fatal flip-through, as I used to call it, back in the days before an on-screen guide, just to make sure that I wasn’t going to miss anything good by going to bed.

I caught the film just as it was starting. I was riveted. The haunting score–that melancholy, minor-key piano melody–the interesting backstory, Tony Todd and the dishy Virginia Madsen… all of it had me hooked.

An hour and a half later, I went to bed.

I didn’t go to sleep.

It scared the hell out of me.

I caught bits and pieces here and there in the years since, but the memories of that first viewing were enough to sustain me–and to keep me from saying his name–hell, saying ANYTHING–in the mirror five times. No thank you.

So here we are, twenty-five years later, on my second full viewing. I’m older. I’m wiser. I’ve seen hundreds of scary flicks that have no effect on me.

And Candyman still scared the hell out of me.

Now that’s a good movie.

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