In March of 1987, I saw Sam Raimi‘s Evil Dead 2 at Brannon Square movie theater in Roswell, Georgia. It changed my day. It changed my life. Because of that movie, I went to film school. To many aspiring filmmakers, the seed for that kind of desire is built out of something rich and wondrous. Ingmar Bergman. Welles. Jean-Pierre Melville. For the fifteen-year-old version of me, it was Raimi’s budding subgenre “splatstick” and its flying eyeballs, blood-spewing animal heads, crawling hands, and relentless lack of pretense.
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