The Thing is nauseating. Seeing it for the first time in a sticky-floored screening room a couple of years back, I thought: It’s too late for me. This movie won’t work anymore. I’ll admire its craft and the bizarre, dirty atmosphere in which John Carpenter was so brilliant at miring his movies, but it won’t frighten me. Of course, just like some stoned goner watching a wheezing VHS copy 25 years ago, The Thing scared the crap out of me.