Carrie is among the most allegorical horror movies for the gay community.
A mousy, downtrodden girl abused at home and teased at school finally takes out her rage on an entire town when pushed too far.
Don’t tell you didn’t root for Carrie when she brought out the can of telekinetic whoop-ass.
And don’t tell me you didn’t see your homophobic ma getting a roomful of knives stuck in her instead of Carrie’s mother.
I can’t speak for every gay man, but when I do sit down to watch a horror film, I single out the jerks that really have it coming because they remind me of someone from my past; then I get a sick pleasure in watching the blood and guts fly.
But looking at the genre as a whole, horror movies hit all the right spots, emotionally speaking. When done right, you get angry, you get scared, you hit plateaus of excitement and terror over the course of an hour and a half.
The Elm Street franchise kicked off a stream of others that add comedy and self-referential humor to add a campiness to the gore.