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Among the large selection of horror films that I had on repeat growing up, there are a few that stand out. John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978) remains my favorite film of all time, and James Whale’s Frankenstein (1931) is still required viewing each October. Stephen King adaptations were my bread and butter; both Christine and Pet Sematary were always stacked on top of my VCR/DVD player combo. Yet, there was one movie that has always thoroughly disturbed me, never losing its potency over the years, despite countless viewings. That movie is Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining.
The Shining follows the Torrance family as the patriarch, Jack (Jack Nicholson), accepts a new job as the off-season caretaker at the Overlook Hotel. Jack has a history of alcoholism and child abuse, but is now sober and eager to spend some solitude writing while away at the hotel. His wife, Wendy (Shelley Duvall), seems to be on board with the decision, but his son, Danny (Danny Lloyd), is skeptical, with his imaginary friend Tony warning him early on of the hotel’s dangers. While the family lives in complete isolation, the ghosts of the Overlook begin to push Jack to insanity, putting Wendy and Danny in danger.
Every friend or cousin that stayed overnight at my house was subjected to a viewing of The Shining on the VHS I picked up at a flea market for a few bucks. I traumatized my little sister by showing it to her when she was only eight — a decision made worse by the fact that I was fifteen at that time and probably knew better. Simply put, I was in love with this movie.
Part of the reason I was — and still am — in love with The Shining is the physical response it evokes from me. When the credits rolled on my first viewing, my entire body was trembling. Every one of my senses seemed to be heightened, and my heart felt as though it might burst at any second. A film had never sparked anything similar within me before The…
