On some art occasion, a creaking chamber doubled perfectly as a funeral-cum-beauty parlor, the second a motel room, and the third space, a movie theater. The front gallery was painted immaculate white; to compensate, the ceiling was plastered with images of bold stars on aluminum sheets, while the back gallery was stark-wicked in black, including the floors. Upstairs and outside suffered a Care Bear-fatal-nice heartburn of acid colors in pink, yellow, aqua and lime green. Even the whiteness of the grotto didn’t look so virginal with all the glitter, tar and flowers that clung to it. Twin gargantuan shells cupped shards of a mirror ball, then some pebbles and an odd frog or two, which happily provided seasonal entertainment to the Chinese chicken Anonymous. In short, the whole place was haunted.
Visitors felt the scary-sunny vibe, from gallerygoers to spirit questors. Artists, friends and their part-time lovers tried to sleep over but just couldn’t. Interns refused to work late in the evening. The carpenter and cleaner got jittery even in broad daylight. No one liked the aura of the space, except me.
I lived there 24/7 and nothing creepy ever happened, at least when I was awake. Although, of course, there could be another theory: That I was the creep who haunted everyone out of the house. Desperate for answers, I tried consulting a Ouija board, and when that didn’t work, I retreated to my mom, a one-woman séance and Oprah Book Club.
Three a.m. and it’s moonless outside. The family secret of the house’s previous occupants is still very much in the dark.
That was Nov. 14, 1974, a year before the new homeowners moved in: George and Kathy Lutz, along with their three children – the eldest boy who looked a bit girly, the second boy who acted like one, and the youngest who, although a real girl, was more supernatural cadet than human. With annoying children like these three, plus an equally colorless wife to ruin the splendid Dutch Colonial interior of the Amityville house, it’s quite understandable (maybe not on moral or ethical grounds, but purely for aesthetic reasons) for the man of the mansion to do away with unnecessary clutter – in this case, his stepkids. In fact, the movie succeeds as a poignant stepdad version of the Julia Robert starrer Stepmom, albeit mixed with Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining.
Ryan Reynolds plays the stepfather as nice at first, but soon gets very cranky. Known for his frat-boy good looks and giddy smile in other horror flicks like The In-Laws and Blade: Trinity, as well as the soon-to-be released wedding video with Alanis Morrisette, Reynolds, in his latest role, switches type and temper so effectively that the audience doesn’t seem to mind his bludgeoning ways. Credit his muscular and towering build, thick and sweaty beard, bloodshot eyes (when angry) and funny lisp (still angry).
"Are you an artist?" he once asked a classmate. Everyone fell silent.
"I guess," the poor guy replied, half-heartedly. Maybe he asked himself the same question before.
"What makes you think that you are?"
"Sir, maybe because I’m in art school?"
"Oh, okay," sighed Prof. Defeo. He clicked the slide projector and on the screen before us marched a small visual army of Giorgone masterpieces.
He repeated the question. "Are you an artist?"
The young aspirant sat down, "possessed" by confusion and shame. Truly a 3:15 moment.
Amityville Horror can attribute the bad direction to the bad real-life event it’s trying to retell. But "bad" in the latter’s case meant evil or criminal, while the movie is just plain bad, in a really bad, bad way. A crime of cinema fit for Court TV, like the Menendez brothers who infamously killed their wealthy parents inside their Beverly Hills home. Or the Forbes Park python that ate a whole dog.
What drives gorgeous sons to kill, and sophisticated reptiles to run away and binge? Boredom? Frustration? Awful home décor? Seriously, maybe a well-organized family room can spell a difference (namely, A-L-I-V-E) and help keep raging family conflicts in check.
Interior designers and homeowners alike should make sure the room is set up with the whole family in mind. Essentials include a sofa, coffee table, lamps, media cabinet, ottoman, and throw pillows. Use soft sculpture instead of hard furniture to avoid serious bodily harm. Hang a lot of mirrors, so you can converse with hostile family members through their reflections and at a safe distance. Double-lock the knife cupboard and paint cutting boards in friendly pastel colors. If all else fails and a family feud ensues, call a real estate or talent agent. Either way, dysfunctional families always seem to bag a deal in our media-mad world. Trouble is billed glamorous, and Jerry Springer-style family bickering a predictable modus operandi for the limelight-depraved.
How come there are no haunted houses in squatter areas? Are there fewer psycho family killers among the economically disadvantaged? Or is there minimal media mileage for real substantive horrors and tragedies?
Less supernatural family traumas abound, and they don’t happen at dusk, sans falling autumn leaves, abandoned hobbyhorses and off-screen violin arrangements. The house isn’t always old or big, the surroundings not necessarily plush, quiet or mysterious. All the tired clichés that go with family shockers a la Falcon Crest-gone-Nightmare on Elm Street is not even a fraction of the story. Adultery, sexual molestation, violence, drugs, fundamentalism, greed – these are the real ghosts that haunt an Amityville household.