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As a teenager I delighted in horror movies. Growing up in the stifling atmosphere of a small town in the Eastern Cape might do that to a person. I saw Christine (based on a Stephen King novel about a vengeful car) at the Walmer drive-in, but was probably more petrified when the Ford Cortina contingent rushed for the exit after the double feature ended.

During my school days we pretty much saw every B-grade horror flick — from What’s in the Basket? and Tourist Trap to Phantasm and Patrick — though I like to think there was an erudite quality to the David Cronenberg movies as well as devilishly deep layers to The Exorcist, Angel Heart, Night of the Living Dead and The Wicker Man (the early 1970s original, not the awful remake)...

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