Permit me to wax nostalgic for a moment. The date was November 13, 1992, a Friday the 13th, just like the one we just celebrated this year. 28 years ago. That’s hard to believe. I was a young wet-behind-the-ears whippersnapper with a mullet and a Members Only jacket, and I went to the theater at the local mall to see this movie. I’d known it was coming for some time, having read all about it in an issue of FANGORIA at the newsstand at the small town grocery store where my family shopped. I got to the mall early to wander around and stare at scantily-dressed girls. In my black cowboy boots, I thought I looked like Billy Badass.
I ate pizza at the Sbarro’s there at the mall—and almost immediately got hit with food poisoning. I got so freakin’ sick, and my body was begging me to just go home to die alone and in peace. Any other time I would have, too. But this was opening night for BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA. I toughed it out. By the time the movie started, I was feeling a little less likely to expire before the closing credits.
I left the theater unsure of how I’d felt about the movie. It was a *lot* to take in. I ended up seeing it another three times in the theater, and rereading the novel somewhere during this duration. The revisiting of the novel cemented my appreciation of the film, an appreciation that has in the years since—28; how’d that even happen?—only intensified. It was so worth toughing it out that night to see it. I’d do it all over again. Oh, and I also bought a BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA T-shirt at the Spencer’s, too, to commemorate the occasion. And unlike the mullet and the Members Only jacket, I still have the T-shirt.