As a child your life tends to revolve around one basic idea: “fun.” Everyone spent their childhood with no other thought than how and when “fun” would be had. Nothing was a better catalyst for fun than toy, everyone had at least one, you shared them, you bragged about which toy you had, how many toys you had, how rare that toy was…You loved them. Of course you did. It’s a TOY. Its main purpose is to instill joy into your life but what happens when that toy doesn’t love you…?
What happened was: “Child’s Play”. If for no other reason than the fact that the sanctity of a child’s toy was, in 88 terror drenched minutes, systematically pried and erased from you memory. Child’s Play scarred me for life there is not just one all encompassing reason for that scar which still resides deep within my psyche, burning white hot every time I’m alone or within the vicinity of an inanimate doll toy. Brad Dourif’s voice for Chucky was just about enough to induce a nice portion of urine in my undies. Maybe it’s the fact that he sounded like how I imagine the guy from all the Truth ads did, right before he acquired that hole in his throat. Or maybe it was even the fact that despite the fact his soul was transferred into the vessel that was a child’s toy he still, with gusto and apathy, managed to keep a fucked-up, distorted joy in his voice. Whatever the case, it was the perfect way to kick start my fear.
As if Brad Dourif’s voice acting wasn’t more than enough for my adolescent mind to take, next was the rest of the movie. Eerie music, jump scares, and “run-for-your-life-even-though-it-doesn’t- matter-because-that-doll-used-to-be-an-accomplished-killer” suspense. Chucky’s implied “innocent child doll look” was, in fact, not freaking innocent at all. The stubby little fingers, overly colorful attire, OH AND THE FACT THAT CHUCKY HAD CRAZY FUCKED UP RED HAIR AND FRECKLES. In my defense I am in no way an advocate for ginger fear mongering but nothing you can say will convince me that it’s not creepy. Something about the look of someone with ginger qualities just doesn’t sit well with me. Something in me says: “That just isn’t right. He doesn’t like it and neither do we.”
*As a side note I’m aware that stubby little fingers don’t tend to instill fear. That may be an isolated incident.
The end all be all of this breaks down to the corruption of innocence, something even my childhood mind was able to grasp. To this very day I refuse to sleep in a room with inanimate dolls. Even before Child’s Play they were frightening enough; every second around one was another second for the doll to come to life. Then it did. In my living room at age 8 and I’ve never been the same since.
UNK SEZ: Thanks for the traumafession Mitch! I don’t mean to ambush you but as a ginger myself, I must disagree with one thing that you said. I have a good sense of humor about ginger jokes and partake in them myself sometimes and I have no problem with folks finding me creepy (I am) or even suggesting I have no soul (I own several) but whatever voice in you is saying “he doesn’t like it and neither do we” is at least half incorrect. Speaking for myself, I can tell you that I do like having red hair. When I was a kid I thought I didn’t but as I grew older, I realized that it was actually other people’s reactions to it that I didn’t care for. No harm, no foul, I still enjoyed your traumafession, I just thought you should know that not everybody who looks different or falls into a minority is wishing they didn’t. Personally, I’ve seen what belonging to the majority can do to a person and it’s not much to envy. On the other hand, I will give you this- Chucky with any other hair color? It just wouldn’t work.