As a note, before we begin, Dear Reader, I realse that the decision to cover Halloween in October could seem like an easy way out. Especially since I am going through an entire series review of the franchise starting on Thursday on my socials. However, the honest truth is that without the character of Michael Meyers, terror doesn't come to the suburbs, at least I don't think it would in the same way. So we are covering Halloween, and we are being cliche'. Embrace it, Dear Reader. And Enjoy the review.

Movie Review: Halloween (1978) – The Shape of Fear

There are movies that enter your life at just the right time, and there are movies that take a little longer to find their place. For me, John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978) fell firmly into the latter category. Growing up, I didn’t have the immediate adoration for this silent, expressionless killer the way I did for the wisecracking Freddy Krueger or the gleefully deranged Chucky. To my younger self, Michael Myers felt bland in comparison—stoic, faceless, and mute. He didn’t wink at the audience or deliver punchlines dripping with malice. Instead, he just… stood there. Watching. Waiting.

It wasn’t until later, with more years of movie-watching under my belt and a better appreciation for subtlety, that I came to understand the genius of Halloween. What Carpenter created was not a monster to laugh with, but a monster to dread in silence. And in that silence lies true terror.

A Simple Premise with Endless Tension

The beauty of Halloween is how deceptively simple it is. On Halloween night in 1963, young Michael Myers commits an inexplicable act of violence—murdering his sister in cold blood. After fifteen years of institutionalization, he escapes and returns to his hometown of Haddonfield, Illinois. There, he stalks a group of teenagers, most notably Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis in her breakout role). That’s the plot. No elaborate mythology. No elaborate dream rules or voodoo chants. Just a man, a mask, and a knife.

But Carpenter proves that you don’t need complexity to terrify. The simplicity is the point. It strips away distractions, leaving you with raw atmosphere. Myers doesn’t need a tragic backstory or a clever gimmick; he’s the embodiment of pure, motiveless evil. His blank mask reflects nothing back at you, and that void is what allows your imagination to do the scariest work.

Michael Myers: The Monster Who Doesn’t Speak

When I was younger, I couldn’t help but compare Michael to other horror icons. Freddy Krueger had jokes, charisma, and a flair for theatricality. Chucky had personality in spades, quipping and snarling his way through scenes. Even Jason Voorhees, though silent, had a certain monstrous presence that felt larger than life.

Michael Myers, by contrast, felt… empty. That was the point, of course, but it didn’t resonate with me back then. As a kid, I wanted the monster to talk to me, to entertain me. But as I grew older, I realized the power of silence. Michael isn’t there to entertain. He’s there to embody inevitability. He’s not a villain with swagger; he’s the cold, unblinking face of death itself.

The brilliance of Nick Castle’s physical performance is all in physicality. His head tilts, the slow deliberate walk, the stillness before a strike, it all became something I learned to admire. Michael doesn’t need to speak because his body language says everything: “You can run, but I’ll still be behind you. You can scream, but I’ll never stop.” He is the patience of evil given form.

Laurie Strode: The Birth of the Final Girl

Of course, Halloween wouldn’t have worked without someone to balance that silent menace. Enter Laurie Strode, the archetypal “final girl” played by Jamie Lee Curtis. Laurie is the bookish, responsible babysitter, of course that is the opposite of her carefree friends. She doesn’t drink, smoke, or sneak off with boys, and in the morality-coded world of slasher films, that makes her the one who endures. She is the one who actually “follows the horror movie rules”

Curtis brought warmth and intelligence to the role. She wasn’t just surviving by luck; she was resourceful, quick-thinking, and tough when cornered. Watching Laurie fight back against Myers in the film’s final act feels like watching the underdog stand up against an unstoppable force.

Laurie’s survival would go on to influence decades of horror films. The “final girl” trope owes much to her, and while later movies would exaggerate or parody it, Curtis’s performance remains grounded and believable.

Carpenter’s Masterpiece of Atmosphere

What truly sets Halloween apart isn’t just Michael Myers or Laurie Strode. It’s John Carpenter’s craftsmanship. Made on a shoestring budget, the film became a masterclass in atmosphere and suspense. Carpenter’s direction relies on long takes, slow pans, and the unnerving use of empty space. So often, the camera lingers just a moment too long, making you search the shadows for that pale mask. Sometimes Myers is there. Sometimes he isn’t. Both are terrifying.

And then there’s the music. Oh, the music. Carpenter composed the score himself, and the minimalist piano theme is now iconic. It’s fast, repetitive, and relentless, mimicking the feeling of your heartbeat racing out of control. Even if you’ve never seen the movie, you’ve probably heard that theme at some point. That theme is woven into pop culture’s DNA.

The brilliance of the score lies in its sparseness. Just like Michael Myers, it doesn’t overexplain or overperform. It simply exists, haunting the air, reminding you that danger is never far away.

The Power of Restraint

One of the things I respect most about Halloween today is how restrained it is compared to the imitators it inspired. After the film’s success, slashers flooded the market, each trying to outdo the last with higher body counts, gorier kills, and more elaborate set pieces. But Carpenter’s original Halloween is relatively bloodless. Most of the violence happens offscreen or is suggested rather than shown.

This restraint keeps the focus on tension rather than shock value. It’s not about how creatively someone can be dispatched; it’s about the anticipation, the dread of what you know is coming. Myers doesn’t leap out every two minutes. He waits. And in that waiting, the audience twists themselves into knots of anxiety.

A Film That Ages Like Fear Itself

Revisiting Halloween as an adult gave me a new appreciation for its craftsmanship. Where I once saw a lack of personality in Michael Myers, I now see a terrifying blankness that makes him timeless. Unlike Freddy or Chucky, whose wisecracks root them in their respective decades, Michael Myers remains eternally chilling. He doesn’t age, he doesn’t evolve, he doesn’t even explain himself. He’s just… there.

That’s the scariest part. Evil doesn’t need a reason. It doesn’t need a voice. It just is. And Halloween captures that primal truth with a precision that’s as effective now as it was in 1978.

Final Thoughts

Halloween may not have been my favorite horror movie growing up. It didn’t have the campy fun or quotable villains I craved. But as the years passed, I came to recognize it for what it is: a landmark in horror cinema, a film that defined a genre, and a masterclass in tension and atmosphere.

John Carpenter gave us more than just a slasher movie; he gave us a meditation on inevitability. In Michael Myers, he created a villain who doesn’t need to speak because he embodies something deeper than words. Michael Meyers is the silent, creeping dread that death is always closer than we think.

Today, I count Halloween among my most admired horror films. It taught me that sometimes the scariest monsters are the ones who say nothing at all.

Verdict: A horror classic that grows more terrifying the older you get. Michael Myers may not crack jokes, but his silence speaks volumes.

Four out of five kitchen knife stabs.