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Confession: I walked out of the theater, back into the safety of afternoon sunlight, thinking, “Well, that was pretty scary, I guess.” It was brave, well-conceived filmmaking -- a monster movie without a monster -- that gradually accelerated my pulse for 90 minutes until I almost thought I would pass out. Almost. But after all the prerelease hype, including a one-hour special on the Sci-Fi Channel perpetuating the myth that the story of three film students who disappeared while gathering footage for a documentary on a grisly bit of Maryland folklore is actually true, I was a little let down. Got a bit angry with myself, frankly, wondering if the experience might not have been even more satisfying with less foreknowledge. i.e., if I’d left the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly unread, I might have gone right past “Hyperventilate” into “Coma.” Afterwards I went straight to swim some laps, just taking it easy in the 100° heat and 90° water temperature of an outdoor pool, mulling why the Blair Witch experience wasn’t quite as satisfying as hoped. Back and forth, 25 yards and flip, thinking about what a young girl at the back of theatre had shouted at the abrupt appearance of a blank screen and final credits: “Gawwww, you can’t end a movie like that.” At the same time a couple older women sitting next to me offered more -- well, “sympathetic” is a poor choice, considering the film’s intent, but one said, “Gosh, I’m still queasy,” to which the other added, “Yeah, my ulcer started acting up about halfway through.” But the climax did seem a little ambiguous. They just -- he... Then it hit me. In water warm enough to cook lobster, I got at chill like I’d just stumbled over my own grave. Now, even though I didn’t get the ending for nearly an hour, I can say unequivocally that The Blair Witch Project ranks with the only other movie ever to rate a 10 on my own personal orifice-pucker scale, The Exorcist.
And it’s all so simple. Heather, Michael, and Josh meet for the first time as their cameras are rolling that late October morning, heading up to Burkittsville, MD, population 200 or so. Armed only with backpacks, some food and water, cigarettes, a map, two cameras, a DAT recorder, youthful exuberance, too much ego, and dangerous little knowledge, they first spend a couple days in town pumping the locals for tidbits of legend, including one particular account whose significance will prove crucial later. Then they head into the woods looking for various sites where, the story goes, every 50 years or so since a witch was run out of town in the late 18th century, a series of bizarre deaths or disappearances occurs. Soon what began as Outward Bound descends into a Hieronymus Bosch painting; out in the dark they hear things; they lose things; they find things; and something finds them.
Go see it. When it's over, if it doesn't sink in immediately, think a minute. When it becomes clearer, you might never feel like leaving the safety of the mall again. A
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