It has been ages since I've gone to the cinema in eager anticipation of being scared witless. A noticeable difference, and an indication that I'm...maturing, shall we say, is that I was excited by a brilliant idea to toss a bran muffin into my bag to enjoy with the cup of tea I would buy at the concession stand.
We could have gone to the late show, driving past the wide expanse of desolate provincial park that blankets in mist each night. But we went to the afternoon show instead, not because we were scared or anything.
The film veers from Susan Hill's book here and there but it wasn't horrible or distracting enough to put me off. But one thing never changes whether it be written word, West End play or film...that ghostly spectre, the woman in black, is terrifying! And last night, with its full moon, we slept with the blind in our room firmly pulled down so that she couldn't peer into our window.