‘Hell Yeah!’ is an ongoing series in which horror filmmakers, critics and fans share their take on movies they love. This month: vampires!

You never forget your first. 

Barlow from the Salem’s Lot miniseries (the 1979 version, that is) was the first vampire who inspired my elementary-school-aged self to fashion a crucifix out of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue, and sleep (or fail to) with it under my pillow. 

I’m not saying that Salem’s Lot is the greatest vampire movie ever made, but for the late 70’s, it brought a lot to the polyester-clad party – particularly one being held on network television.  It was directed by Tobe Hooper.  It contained exactly one-half of Starsky and Hutch.  It even had Fred Willard as a smarmy real estate agent sporting (if memory serves) cheesy silk boxer shorts, getting it on with his secretary.  (Wow – I think I just solved the decades-old mystery of why real estate agents have always given me the creeps, too.) 

Now, you have to put Barlow in context - there were a lot of mixed messages being sent out in ’79.  Barlow slithered onto the small screen several months after Frank Langella glided onto the big screen with his bedroom eyes and copious command of hair care products.  Frank Langella is at least partially to blame for having sparked the now-viral influx of uber-trendy and fine fanged ‘glampires’ portrayed by the likes of Brad Pitt and Robert Pattinson in more recent times.  The glampire is the go-to good time mainstream variation of the bloodsucker.  But the glampire does not incite terror.  The glampire incites more of an, “Ooooh!  Ooooh!  Over here!  Pick me!  Pick me!” deep swoon.  At least in women and gay males.

My point being, Barlow looked nothing like Frank Langella.  I was caught off-guard. 

While writing this article, I found myself consulting YouTube in an attempt to refresh my memory.  The fanged freak from my formative years couldn’t possibly be as terrifying as I remembered.  It had only been mere weeks prior to setting eyes on Barlow that I had graduated from carting around a Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox.  The bar was set pretty low, right?

However, in watching this clip, I find that there’s a certain element of old-school spook that still resonates. 

And it resonates waaaaaaaaay past the dialed-to-11 musical crescendo.  Or what about this scene?  It made me want to wall up every last window in my bedroom, just so I wouldn’t have to hear the fingernails of an undead playmate beckoning me out of bed in the middle of the night.

Ian Somerhalder using mind control to gain access to your boudoir is one thing; but a creepy, grinning, pasty-faced fifth grader being dangled from an invisible harness is quite another.  The latter spectacle would probably still scare the bejesus out of me.

Er…..not every scene was a keeper.  Take this one - please.

While we’re on the subject of firsts, Barlow might be the first vampire ever willing to go on record wielding a classic Three Stooges move (the ol' "grab two people by the scruff of the neck and play their heads like band cymbals" maneuver) to subdue his victims.  Plus sidekick James Mason barking, "Back!  Back, holy man!  Back, shaman!  Back, priest!" plays more like Monty Python than menacing madman.  Implausibly, Mason’s posh English accent and commanding stage presence fail to lend any dignity to the proceedings.

And I don’t freakin’ care.  The fingernails on the window pane...the slow paced, torturous, cliffhanging suspense drawn out over the course of two separate evenings of televised terror....but most importantly, Barlow himself, beckoned me into the fold of horror fandom at an impressionable age.  And horror fandom – like your jugular meeting with the business end of a vampire’s mouth – is the kind of thing that stays with you forever.