The thing is, I didn’t find The Conjuring as scary as friends and netizens have led me to believe.
Granted, the stage was set for horror when I watched this latest James Wan screamer on my netbook. It was a rainy Sunday night, the wind was howling outside, rattling the windows and making the house creak and groan as if in pain. Still, poof! I didn’t have trouble sleeping or going to the bathroom alone afterward.
My friend Lot pointed out that maybe I’d have a different opinion if I saw the film on a big screen complete with Dolby and all. Arguable, at least. I saw the Woman in Black on my netbook last year, on a fair-weather night, I must say, and that shit still freaked me out.
The Conjuring is not a bad movie per se. It has its moments. Wan is good at building up suspense even if he tends to overdo it sometimes. It’s just that, having spent my younger years gorging serial killer biographies, Stephen King, and sick heavy metal, very few things outside of true day-to-day evil shock me anymore.
To conclude, it’s not the movie, it’s me. And thousands of overexcited netizens who think mysterious unseen entities clapping in the dark are freaky.