By Rod Labbe
“Hey, Ronnie, have you seen that boss new soap opera, yet?” my perpetually jittery 13-year-old cousin, Debbie, asked me, one long ago August (1966) evening. “It’s called Dark Shadows, and, um, there’s this kid who’s trying to kill his father and stuff, and they all live inside this big house on a cliff and…um…stuff…”
“Yeah, so?”
“Wait! Listen! There’s more!” Her eyes danced behind thick “cat’s eye” glasses. “You’ll never guess what else!”
“Uh-uh…don’t wanna guess,” I sighed, painfully disinterested.
“Oh, come on. Please? It’s somethin’ you’ll really, really like! Promise!”
“I give up, Deb. Why doncha tell me.”
She gulped a deep breath, braced herself, and blurted: “Ok! The show’s set right here. In Maine!”
Ok, I’ll admit, my interest level instantly spiked. That any television program, even a lowly soap, would use our state as its backdrop struck me as terrifically innovative. Pre-Stephen King and his amazing literary influence, Maine seemed an almost forgotten entity—as if we’d fallen off into the Atlantic Ocean or been absorbed into Canada.
And now, Hollywood was calling?
The next afternoon, after fortifying myself with a hearty bowl of potato chips and an ice cold Coke, I plunked down in front of our newfangled Zenith color TV and cranked (no remote in those prehistoric days—switching channels required muscle) the dial to Channel 8, an ABC affiliate.
Videotaped images flickered before me: a whiny little boy (David Henesy) gazing at a crystal ball; an imperious middle-aged man (Louis Edmonds) pounding back brandies and ranting about failed brakes on his car. Worried, hand-wringing women. One grand and gloomy mansion, christened “Collinwood,” situated atop a sea-worn cliff. Pounding surf, bizarre “down east” accents and pronunciations (they called Bangor “Bang-gerrr”). And that gorgeous score—sweeping, eerie, orchestrated to movie-like perfection.
But it was a soap opera!
Shudder!
Bored housewives, shut-ins and fluttery teenaged girls swooned over soaps. Not cool guys like me! Being an active 8th grader (and a male—yes, yes, sexist, I agree), I absolutely refused to waste my precious junior high downtime watching the tube.
Scant months later, early May of 1967 to be exact, Dark Shadows and I crossed paths again. I’d been hearing soooo much about this “freaky” show from friends and classmates, I decided, what the hey. Why not give it a second look? Can’t hurt, right?
Exactly at 3:30, Victoria Winters (Alexandra Moltke) recited a short narrative over a hazy shot of Collinwood, and I fought an almost uncontrollable urge to bolt outside, screaming.
But that day, Dark Shadows had abandoned its flaccid whodunit angle and gone for the jugular. I watched, lips slack, as young waitress Maggie Evans (Kathryn Leigh Scott, a refreshing ingénue) was kidnapped, kept prisoner in the cellar of the “Old House,” and forced to “become” Barnabas Collins’ (Jonathan Frid) lost love, Josette duPres.
And who was this Barnabas Collins chap? None other than a dyed-in-the-wool vampire, released from his chained coffin by trembling loser/petty thief Willie Loomis (John Karlen).
One viewing, and my mundane small-town world shifted into a whole new mode. Spring and its sunny attractions could wait—I was busy joining the ranks of bored housewives and shut-ins hooked on soaps!
Dark Shadows and I became fast friends. Nothing escaped me; gaffes, actor substitutions, and plot meanderings were catalogued and saved in my memory banks. “Isn’t the Old House creepy? Cobwebs everywhere!” I’d blather, torturing any unfortunate within earshot. “Harry Johnson’s a lowlife snake! And why does Burke Devlin (Mitchell Ryan/Anthony George) hate Roger (Louis Edmonds)? I can’t believe Mrs. Johnson (Clarice Blackburn) cleans that entire house single-handedly!
To say I was obsessed would be kind.
All Shadows-philes know that DS sprang from the fertile brain of creator/producer/director Dan Curtis. His idea (or dream, if you believe accepted lore)—Victoria Winters (Alexandra Moltke) relocates to distant Maine for a governess position at Collinwood--was rooted in the gothic, woman-in-jeopardy genre. For its first year (June 66-early 67), Dark Shadows tread this threadbare path, examining storylines about murder plots, romance, and peril.
Soap operas, circa 1966, were turgid affairs and hardly the polished productions we’re accustomed to today.
Musical scores consisted of fruity organ solos, and the chintzy sets and overstated acting provided ripe material for satire.
Dark Shadows eschewed such conventions. Production values dazzled, from set design to costumes to music and make-up. And what other daytime drama had a genuine movie icon heading its cast? Joan Bennett, veteran of Hollywood’s Golden Age, commanded center stage as Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, Collinwood’s mistress. Beautifully regal at 56, she brought class to the proceedings and kept that bar impeccably raised for DS’ five-year run.
The show’s greatest draw was its increasingly supernatural wackiness. At first, apparitions were on tap, a bit staid, but again, unusual for daytime TV. Curtis cranked up the weirdness quotient with a story arc involving Roger Collins’ estranged (and missing) wife, Laura.
Played by lovely Diana Millay, Laura’s an aloof, puzzling figure, and her inexplicable reappearance sends shockwaves throughout Collinsport. What could she possibly want, after so many years? Money? Position? Respect? When asked, the strangely serene ex-Mrs. Collins professes only motherly love for son, David.
Her hidden agenda, however, reveals a sinister objective.
Laura is actually a phoenix, the human embodiment of a mythical bird that rises, reborn, from its own ashes every 100 years. To accomplish this, she must burn with David, but he cannot participate unwillingly. Vicki, ever intrepid, uncovers her evil plan as flames are about to consume son and mother. Foiled, Laura expires in fire, smoke, and lots of screaming, David survives, and Dark Shadows notched its first real exercise in spookery.
Ratings quivered sufficiently to stave off impending cancellation. Curtis, energized, cunningly utilized his trump card: Barnabas Collins, reluctant vampire.
It was an inspired move. Barnabas grabbed the public by their collective throats, and DS took off, exploring new heights as a cult phenomenon.
That demographic included a shy junior high kid from Waterville, Maine. Namely me.
Barnabas ruled, plain and simple, a no-nonsense vampire who demanded fealty from those in his control—but he underestimates Maggie Evans. A modern girl, she fights him psychologically, refusing to assimilate the identity of Josette. This does not sit well with Mr. Collins, an 18th century man. Ruthless, magnificent, and bloodthirsty when the situation calls for it, he reacts. Maggie must be eliminated, post-haste.
Just when all hope seems lost, the ghost of Sarah Collins (Sharon Smyth) materializes and helps her escape from captivity, a harrowing sequence!
Suffering from fear-induced amnesia, Maggie reaches safety and is immediately ensconced at Windcliff, a private mental hospital. Enter Dr. Julia Hoffman (Grayson Hall). As head physician, she’s called in to handle Maggie’s case. Hoffman suspects Barnabas, devilish bargains are sealed, and Dark Shadows moved up another notch.
By October 1967, Julia was trying to “cure” Barnabas of vampirism, and the sight of her concocting a serum in the Old House basement has stayed with me to this day. Beaker upon beaker of bubbling colored water, misty dry ice, and Hall’s intense, lip-biting acting added up to an exhilarating Dark Shadows moment.
What did all this lab activity produce? A serum that looked like insulin and managed to quell Barnabas’ raging blood lust.
Understandably enthralled with his returning humanity, Barnabas urges Julia to rush the treatments. Bad idea! In a series highlight, he reverts to his chronological age—all 175 years—by way of Dick Smith’s make-up wizardry. A bite to Cousin Carolyn’s (Nancy Barrett) neck restores his vitality, and Julia suddenly finds herself on the outs.
Ah, I remember it well. I was a freshman in high school and utterly fascinated. I simply could not get enough of Barnabas Collins and crew! There were a few speed bumps, sure; I didn’t particularly care for David Henesy (David Collins, Jamison Collins, etc.), and Victoria Winters annoyed me “wicked” (to use a Maine saying).
Vapid and wimpy and so very fickle!
But I did love Joan Bennett, the aristocratic Edmonds, Jonathan Frid, Grayson Hall, Joel Crothers, John Karlen, Clarice Blackburn, and lovely Kathryn Leigh Scott, the best freaked-out victim this side of Fay Wray.
And really, was there ever a more bored blonde heiress than Nancy Barrett’s Carolyn Stoddard? We could count on “Kitten” to hook up with any available stud who ambled into Collinwood, be it patchwork man Adam (Robert Rodan), Tony Peterson (Jerry Lacy), Chris Jennings (Don Briscoe), Jeb Hawkes (Christopher Pennock), or biker boy, Buzz (Michael Hadge). She threw caution to the wind, which is exactly why DS survived for five years against stiff odds.
The prickly relationship between Julia and Barnabas culminates in a séance, held ostensibly to contact Sarah, Barnabas’ sister. It proved Dark Shadows’ finest hour and an episodic landmark for afternoon TV.
Amid flickering candles and swooning participants, Victoria Winters somehow transports through time to the Collinwood of 1795. There she meets a younger Barnabas, his domineering father, Joshua (Louis Edmonds), alcoholic, tragic mother, Naomi (Joan Bennett), and other assorted Collinses.
Much of what transpired in 1795 contradicted facts already established; nonetheless, from November 1967 until April 1968, we learned all about how Barnabas Collins rose to the occasion as television’s most famous vampire.
1795 also introduced one of Dark Shadows’ liveliest characters: Angelique Bouchard, portrayed by actress Lara Parker. Despite a betrothal to his one true love, Josette (Kathryn Leigh Scott), Barnabas recklessly jumped into an illicit tropical island dalliance with Angelique. He considers it a fling, but Angelique—Josette’s personal maid as well as a practicing witch—doesn’t take kindly to being so ill-used.
Through sly machinations, she finagles Barnabas into marriage, but he realizes her treachery and rebels.
This leads to a legendary confrontation! In a stunningly constructed sequence, Barnabas accuses Angelique of witchcraft and shoots her.
“All those who love you will die!” she gasps, mortally wounded (or is she?).
To add emphasis, a bat—enlisted by Angelique as a “spy”—crashes through the drawing room window and attacks Barnabas, inflicting upon him the forever curse of vampirism.
Whoa! If Dark Shadows can be defined by any singular moment in its five-year broadcast history, it would be here.
That level of crackling drama was sadly missing in the next chapter. Victoria returns to 1968 unscathed (how and why? Buy MPI’s DVD boxed sets and find out!), and a different storyline rapidly unfolds: the creation of Adam. An obvious Frankenstein “homage,” Adam broke no creative ground, but a secondary plot featuring nasty Angelique’s Machiavellian turn as Roger’s wife, Cassandra, kept things percolating nicely.
Donning a brunette wig and “fashionable” (for 1968: lime green, offset with yellow polka dots! Yeep!) outfits, Cassandra casts a dream curse on Barnabas, designed to jump-start his lapsed vampirism. Since supplying Adam’s “life force,” he’d been living a relatively normal man. Angelique, called from the netherworld and sworn to thwart him, is—at first—unaware of Adam’s existence.
The dream curse sequences are macabre wonders, near flawlessly executed. First to suffer is Maggie Evans, for her striking resemblance to Josette.
Angelique’s ultimate aim? To have Barnabas “dream the dream,” where he’ll win a vampire bat behind door #3!
Innovation notwithstanding, the dream curse played second fiddle to Adam’s dull saga, as sharp characterizations dissolved into camp. We’re given mad scientist Eric Lang (scenery shredder Addison Powell), satanic messenger/warlock Nicolas Blair (Humbert Allen Astredo), vampire witch Angelique (don’t ask), and the tinker toy birth of Adam’s mate, Eve (sexy Marie Wallace).
Toss in a clichéd love angle between kindly Carolyn and misunderstood monster Adam, and you’ve got DS as satire rather than ground-breaker.
After seven agonizing months, Adam left Collinsport to seek a new life, and the writers focused their attentions on Turn of the Screw by Henry James. Little did they know what lay ahead.
David and Amy Jennings (Denise Nickerson—who achieved film immortality as bratty gum-chewer Violet in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory) are drawn to a hidden West Wing room containing the earthly remains of Quentin Collins (David Selby). Zap! They're possessed, manipulated by diabolical spirits Quentin and his paramour, Beth Chavez (Terry Crawford). Any resemblance to Quint and Miss Jessel from James’ story is strictly intentional!
An extensive flashback transpires. Barnabas uses the mystical I-Ching wands and travels to 1897, era of Quentin, roving gypsy tribes, and Count Petofi’s (Thayer David) monstrous disembodied hand. Ratings not only quivered; they skyrocketed!
During that period (December 1968-November 1969), Dark Shadows was aggressively merchandised, unlike any television show in history—soap opera or otherwise. Collectible gum cards, Halloween costumes, records, games, comic books, toys, model kits, Josette’s music box, magazines and even “horror pillows” generated consumer dollars. Whatever DS had, it made cash registers ring and spelled success with a capital $.
1969 turned out to be a watershed year for me, too. Baby sister, Judy, provided the catalyst; she’d been writing fan letters to DS stars, and her response from Jonathan Frid altered the course of our lives and sent it spinning.
Enclosed with Frid’s preprinted autographed photo was a solicitation. “Join the Dark Shadows Vampire Club!” that fateful flyer shouted, and we were hopelessly snared. “Receive a personally autographed 8 x 10 photo of Jonathan (Barnabas) Frid! Get notepads and a record and postcards and reams and reams of fan material. All for a measly $10!
Well, ten bucks might just as well have been a king’s ransom to two penniless kids, but Dad, bless him, supplied the lucre. A month of nail-biting suspense followed, and voilà! We had our membership package and jumped into DS fandom with both feet!
One added benefit of membership in the DS Vampire Club was an insert listing all other Dark Shadows’ fan clubs currently existing. Yep, fan organizations ran rampant, and once I became aware of this thriving network, there was no stopping me!
In quick succession, I joined Marie Wallace’s club, run by Cathe Horodowich, out of Brooklyn; Louis Edmonds’, presided over by Philadelphian Dot Money; Diana Millay’s, with Bob Finocchio as president, and Jerry Lacy’s, under the guidance of Rhode Islander mom, Gloria Lillibridge. All were a likeable, friendly bunch, and I happily learned we shared common interests, besides our ages (approximately 16-17, not counting Gloria) and Dark Shadows.
My biggest calling card was that I lived in Maine. Waterville bears little resemblance to the seaside Collinsport, but it mattered not. For spice, I’d pepper each pen-pal letter with chatty comments about Camden and Rockport, real “Dark Shadowy” coastal Maine towns. So what if I rarely visited them? Reality didn’t count!
I drank up insider’s info like a sponge. Various club newsletters gave me the skinny on Jonathan Frid’s favorite book to Kathryn Leigh Scott’s hopes “for peace and love and an end to the Vietnam war.” I read that John Karlen used words like “darlin’,” and Joan Bennett smoked lots of cigarettes, wore Jungle Gardenia perfume, and answered her fan mail personally.
My DS craziness spiraled to crescendo on July 29th, 1969. Via Marie’s newsletter, I learned she’d be doing a play called Burlesque at New Hampshire’s historic Hampton Playhouse—one state away. The universe reeled! Surely Dad and Mom would bring us to Hampton, considering such an unbelievable opportunity!
They swallowed my logic, hook, line, and sinker, and within days, we were off to the Granite State toward an adventure that would have life-long reverberations.
Dad’s plan: rent a motel room, spend the next day shopping, sight-seeing, and partaking in New England cuisine. A lobster dinner and Marie Wallace, what could be better?
As my folks purchased the tickets, I felt a brainstorm brewing. Furiously, I scribbled a note that read “Dear Miss Wallace, my name is Rodney Labbe, and my sister Judy and I have driven over 150 miles to meet you.
Could we please come backstage after the show?”
I tracked down Hampton’s stage manager and shakily handed him my note. He smirked, evidently quite amused, and promised to give it to Marie. In a star-induced delirium, we located our seats, read our playbills, and whooped and hollered at Marie’s entrance. Watches, not to mention pulses, were checked constantly!
As soon as the house lights came up, Judy and I thundered backstage like two rampaging rhinos, sweeping past backdrops and dismantled flats and dusty curtains. Hyper-ventilating (and near collapse), we skidded around a corner, and there, in a circle of golden light, stood Marie Wallace, Dark Shadows star.
Oooooooo!
She was sweat-drenched and exhausted and welcomed us like long-lost friends. What a pleasure! To this day, I’ve yet to meet a celebrity so totally unpretentious. We babbled inane questions about Dark Shadows, and Marie listened to every one, answered every one, and made us feel entirely special.
In our silly fan delirium, we had the nerve to ask for autographed photos, which were delivered within one short week. I still treasure mine, slightly yellowed around the edges—a tangible reminder of one glorious fan-to-star experience.
But our connection with Marie didn’t end there. That winter, my best friend Don told me he’d read about us in a magazine. I stared at him incredulously. Huh? A magazine?
I checked it out, and what do you know, he was right! A gossip item in Daytime TV mentioned how Rodney and Judy Labbe had trekked 300 miles round trip to see Dark Shadows’ famous Marie Wallace perform at Hampton Playhouse. We’d arrived!
The bubble couldn’t last; high school intervened, crushing pseudo-celebrity beneath books and term papers. Meanwhile, Dark Shadows was in its fourth year, and the storyline left me scratching my head. Barnabas had returned from 1897, only to be kidnapped by robed figures straight out of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu.
Cue the Leviathans, mythical creatures bent on overtaking humankind. Their seed, planted in a “breathing” box, is entrusted to the care of antique dealers, Philip (Christopher Bernau) and Megan (Marie, again) Todd.
The seed insidiously grows—first, into an infant; second, a preschooler; third, a nasty kid; fourth, an even nastier (and smarmier) teenager; and finally, morphing into the frenzied form of a jaw-clenching Christopher Pennock.
Move over Frid and Selby. Pennock reigned as DS’ latest heartthrob, and 16 Magazine et al. went to town playing up his girl appeal. In the role of Jeb Hawkes, Pennock overacted shamelessly; that he was also an indescribably horrific monster (seen only in shadow) made him barely tolerable.
I confess, the Dark Shadows of late 1969 bore little resemblance to what I’d fallen in love with two short years earlier. Victoria Winters was but a memory, and Barnabas and Julia, united as a kind of ersatz Holmes and Watson, ascended as the show’s heroes (a laughable premise, considering the bodies in their wake). Barnabas, especially, had undergone an unnecessary overhaul. Instead of a vampire with an edge, we’d been handed a vampire do-gooder.
The Leviathan storyline did have a sunny side: it helped me achieve total fan nirvana! Dennis Patrick, who’d previously played conniver Jason McGuire, had rejoined the ensemble as Paul Stoddard, father of Carolyn and Elizabeth’s once-presumed dead husband. After Paul’s first episode, an idea lodged itself firmly inside my brain. Might he be listed in the Manhattan phonebook?
One call to Directory Assistance, and surprise, surprise—Dennis Patrick was listed! I dialed the number, steeling my nerve, and counted—one ring…two rings…three…click!
“Hello?” the familiar voice asked.
“Uh, hi, is, um, Mr. Patrick there?”
“Speaking.”
“Duhhhh…”
“Who’s this?”
I blubbered my name and asked if I could run his fan club. A significant part of me knew Dennis Patrick had no use for such a thing, but I barreled forward, operating on pure adrenaline. Lo and behold, he consented! I hung up and fell back onto my bed, swooning. Man, I’d become one of the chosen few: a fan club president!
Rejuvenated and socially elevated, I put the club together. Out pumped newsletters, photographs (Dennis graciously provided me with a stack of signed 8 x 10s), bulletins, and engraved pencils.
The inevitable eventually happened. Paul Stoddard expired, Dennis Patrick left the show, and group memberships dropped off precipitously. With my coffers empty, I closed up shop and felt enormous relief. This was much harder than I’d thought. Kudos to Cathe, Bob, Dot and Gloria, true warriors of the fan movement!
An aside here: Dennis tragically left us in 2003. This fine gentleman gave me a chance and helped build the foundation for my writing career. Because of his kindness, my self-esteem had a chance to soar. Thanks, Dennis.
As all the fan club looniness unraveled, older sister Sue offered to bring Judy and me to NYC for our February 1970 school break. We’d rent a Manhattan hotel room, see the requisite tourist sites, and top it all with a stop at the Dark Shadows studio!
Bright and early Saturday, February 20th, we sped off down I-95, and six hours later, I tasted my first big bite of the Big Apple, seeds and all.
Talk about culture shock! Monolithic skyscrapers towered above us; there were sirens and police cruisers and enough neon to light Las Vegas. At a busy intersection, two men lay on the sidewalk, people strolling by and around them. A well-dressed gentleman (apparently drunk) stumbled from person to person and was rebuffed, sometimes violently.
Welcome to big city reality, 1970-style. I felt like someone from Hooterville!
Once settled into our room (at the Dixie Cup Hotel, not exactly swanky), we caught a cheesy movie at Radio City Music Hall (Tick…Tick…Tick… starring George Kennedy), climbed the Empire State Building, gagged down roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, rode the subway, gawked at graphic porn openly displayed in store windows, avoided spike-heeled hookers, were pushed and rudely bumped by pedestrians, and had an icy stroll/brisk walk through the frosty wonderland of Central Park.
Monday, February 22nd (Washington’s Birthday), was our last day as NYC nomads. We began with a hurried, early morning breakfast at Horn and Hardart’s and then (sound trumpets, clash cymbals), the DS studio beckoned! Yay!
Sue hailed a taxi, and we were there.
My spirits instantly plummeted. This was the DS studio? A forlorn little building, no bigger than a service station? Graffiti covered its walls, stuff like “I love Barnabas” and “Quentin turns me on!” A few candy wrappers skittered across the grimy pavement. Everything looked lonely, deserted, and decidedly uninviting.
The cabby deposited us into frigid morning temps. “Are you positive this is the right place?” Sue asked, visibly irritated. I pointed to the ABC sign, and she sighed, not sharing our rabid interest in Dark Shadows.
For minutes (or was it hours?), we waited alone. Slowly, others appeared: kids with strange “New Yawk” accents, armed with autograph books, cameras, and pictures, battle-scarred vets of the fan movement. Two girls in fur-lined parkas and plastic vampire fangs spent half an hour playing hide and seek. An alley cat foraged through a nearby garbage can. The wintry air was clouded with breaths, bringing with it the acrid smell of roasted chestnuts.
A yellow taxi pulled to the curb, and everyone swelled forward as Nancy Barrett’s tiny form emerged. She signed five or six autographs, bid adieu to her adoring minions, and disappeared inside the studio.
Other cabs arrived, and pandemonium ensued, unlike any spectacle I’d ever witnessed. Grayson Hall, Chris Pennock, Jonathan Frid, Geoffrey Scott, and Joan Bennett passed among us and were gone.
It was all over in a matter of moments.
Sue, seething, glared at me. “We’re freezing our asses off for a few glimpses? We’ve been here almost two hours!”
“Oh, they’ll be coming out again,” someone chimed, “to sign autographs.”
So, we held on, and within 45 bone-chilling minutes, the doors opened, and Jonathan Frid and Geoffrey Scott proceeded to do battle with a multitude of outstretched hands. Flashbulbs popped, doors closed, and candy wrappers skittered.
End of visit.
That New York trip changed me fundamentally. There’s wisdom in keeping one’s distance, and I was far too close to Dark Shadows. My “fan sophistication” had strangled the innocent within.
Coincidentally, DS’ ratings, once so spectacular, faltered badly with the Leviathan storyline. Even a plot device labeled “parallel time” fell flat for me.
An indefinable turbulence was building, as one by one, my favorite DS stars exited, never to return: Alexandra Moltke, Anthony George, David Ford, Joel Crothers, Diana Millay, David Henesy, Abe Vigoda, Denise Nickerson, Clarice Blackburn, and Marie Wallace. When Kathryn Leigh Scott bid adieu, my last and best link to classic DS snapped.
A retread of parallel time had Jonathan Frid and Lara Parker playing lovers straight out of Wuthering Heights, but I found nothing to love in these two. As Barnabas and Angelique, their cat and mouse game tantalized. Bramwell Collins and Catherine Harridge bored me literally to distraction.
For four years, I’d spent my weekdays under the spell of Dan Curtis’ dream. But I was no longer a shy 14-year-old kid. The comforting baubles of childhood were losing their shine.
DS drifted into cancellation limbo on April 2, 1971, and I confess: I didn’t even watch the final episode.
Life trundled onward. I graduated from high school and college, began freelance writing, and even tackled two horror novels. My twenties melted into my thirties, and in the twinkling of an eye, I’d entered the inconceivable realm of parents and teachers: middle age.
A contact I’d made was a DS aficionado, and she suggested I write an article from the perspective of an “old” Dark Shadows fan. Voluminous material had already been committed to paper, which meant this would have to be unique. I was eager to explore nostalgic haunts.
An Internet search unearthed three friends from my early days as a fan: Bob (Robert) Finocchio, Dot (Dee Kearney) Money, and Cathe (Tourkodimitris) Horodowich, who’d run the Diana Millay, Louis Edmonds, and Marie Wallace fan clubs, respectively. We were all still alive and kicking!
I also reconnected with Marie, after an astonishing 30 years! What a pleasant surprise to discover that she recalled our backstage visit. There’s an actor’s memory for you!
Dark Shadows was and still is an indelible part of my life. Those connections were strengthened further when I attended the 2003 Dark Shadows Fest, held in New York City. A sentimental day! As they had 33 years earlier, Sue and Judy accompanied me. We certainly had ourselves a blast.
Today, I’m busier than ever, regularly contributing DS-related projects to Scary Monsters magazine (the Scary Monsters pieces, this one included, garnered me Rondo nominations) and interviewing Kathryn Leigh Scott, Dave Selby, Marie Wallace, Jerry Lacy, Chris Pennock and Jim Storm for Fangoria. The Johnny Depp/Tim Burton big screen revamp also provided article fodder. There’s always something new to be mined and expounded upon.
And so, to all those dreamers who have been swept up by Dark Shadows’ wondrously enticing charms…
I humbly dedicate this essay.