cinematic prophylactic: decreasing teen pregnancy through horror films

Apologies: my antiquated version of wordpress wouldn’t let me upload pictures. Use the imdb links, the google, and your imagination. If you dare.

Waco Planned Parenthood is gearing up for Nobody’s Fool, and it’s riling up the pro-life troops. I, for one, don’t want pubescent kids to be getting freaky for a variety of reasons, and Planned Parenthood promotes abstinence in their program. It is, after all, fool-proof. But only if you are not actually not having sex. So they also promote contraceptives, prophylactics, and general informedness.

I went to the True Love Waits Disciple Nows and the quarterly “NO TOUCHING” lessons at church, school, and home. And frankly, they just aren’t scary enough. A fallen woman (never, ever man) would come in and tell us how she succumbed to the temptations of the flesh and got pregnant (because good girls don’t plan for these situations). But, luckily, God sent her a righteous man who would marry her in spite of the scarlet “KU” on her sleeve. Yawn.

If you are, for some ill-advised reason, convinced that appropriate sex ed is going to make things worse, there’s only one solution left. Make girls terrified of babies. It’s the only way.

And Hollywood, for once, is on your side.

Just follow this regime and your teen will stay babyless. Possibly for the rest of her life.

Promoting fear of gestation, or, starting with the obvious:
Alien (1979)
I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, but here we go. I never, ever want to have babies because of this movie. Aliens, having found every evolutionary loophole possible, have a three part life-cycle: crab-like face-sucker; eyeless, parasitic chest-burster; exomorph killing machine. They bleed acid. They make horrible noises. They jump your face and impregnate you through your mouth (it CAN happen that way, kids!). Once impregnated, the larvae gestates in your belly and leaves through the least complicated route: your abdominal wall. Ultimately, they are defeated by Sigourney Weaver, who despite having a child with a never-discussed father in the film, is the least maternal-looking actress ever. But she does have a cat. So there we have it: spinsterhood preserves life.This movie is not so much a subtle exploration on our universal fears regarding procreation, as it is a college freshman who just read Freud. It’s enough to make teens otherwise convinced of their invincibility realize they’re a delicate flower. That no one else should ever touch. Ever.

Lesson learned: Anything more substantial than a yogurt culture living inside of you is probably going to kill you. Gruesomely. When others are trying to eat dinner.

Rosemary’s Baby (1968)
Like Alien, this film’s place in the cultural cannon is so universally accepted and its body horror elements so discussed, its hard to appreciate the unadultarated terror it can root in a woman’s heart. Rosemary (Mia Farrow, sporting both my maternal grandmother’s name and haircut), just moved into The Dakota Building (called The Bramford for the film) with her actor husband, is hip, savvy, and about to be Satan’s carnal bride. So, maybe The Dakota isn’t so exclusive afterall, because its pretty much filled with Satan worshippers. While the ladies in the cult are devoted, they’re also menopausal and in need of a sweet, young womb to birth their anti-messiah. Good thing John Cassavetes, as Rosemary’s myopic husband, is just cutthroat and ambitious enough to offer up his lady as Satan’s baby momma in exchange for some of that benevolent good will for which Lucifer is renowned. As one might imagine, carrying The Prince of Darkness does not an easy pregnancy make, and after her first look at her anticipated son evokes the iconic: “His eyes! What’s wrong with his eyes!?”

There isn’t a feminine fear that the film doesn’t exploit: carrying a stranger inside of you, growing increasingly revolting to your mate, complete isolation from your single and childless friends — it runs the gamut. The worst bit? Despite being half mephistophelean, he’s still her baby. She can’t leave him, because even pure evil needs a mom.

Lesson learned: The hormones involved in child-bearing will make you crazy enough to breast-feed the Anti-Christ.

Promoting fear of childhood, or, agency only makes things worse:
The Bad Seed (1956)
Before there was The Ring’s Samara or The Omen’s Damien, there was the original bad seed: Rhoda of, um, The Bad Seed.

First lesson kids: remorseless evil can hide in little blond girls with pigtails more polished than a Molly doll. Unlike Samara or Damien — or even Rosemary’s little bundle o’ joy — there is no supernatural explanation. Her father is a compassionate Army Colonol, and her mother’s only fault is being a little wigged out by her sociopath daughter. So, maybe we learn that her mom’s mom was also a mass murder, but “genetic predisposition skipping a generation” hardly constitutes extraordinary circumstances. Moreover, did I mention “remorseless”? Because Rhoda does her dark deeds with the absolute conviction that because she can, she can. It’s not random, I mean, she has her reasons. She usually wants something shiny, like a snowglobe or a medal: legit motivation if your a magpie. She manages not getting caught, or even arousing suspicion — though those of us who are familiar with crippling inadequacy issues immediately find her veneer of adamantine perfection suspicious. As her mother grows increasingly aware of what her daughter is capable of, one can feel her ovaries wither. The film ends ironically and not quite satisfyingly. The book didn’t have to accomodate the Hays Code. We’ll leave it at that.

Lesson learned: Kids are a crapshoot, even if you’re perfect.

The Brood (1979)
FACT: Enough David Cronenberg will make ideological putty out of anyone. The Brood, while one of his less celebrated films (for fair reasons), will make any young girl turn to her authority figure and say, “Just tell me what you want me to do with my uterus, and I’ll do it, because that was creepy as shit.” And how.

A synopsis of Hemmingway-like simplicity. Frank loves Nora. Frank and Nora have a beautiful little girl. Nora goes crazy, is institutionalized by an “unorthodox” psychiatrist. Nora starts growing and harvesting what amount to “crazy woman anger babies” on her skin. “Cub-licking scene” edited out for American audiences. Everyone Crazy Nora has ever taken issue with is brutalized and murdered by one of her ever-expanding army of deformed rage spawn.

Furthermore, the broodlings look a lot like her normal daughter, except gross. Also, they all wear little snowsuits and totter around like sinister Snowbabies . And they never talk. Just kill, hangout in their summer-camp-in-hell, bunk-bed-filled cabin, and kill. So yeah, you should check it out.

In addition to causing fear of children, The Brood harkens to a deeper fear: what if your crazy is contagious? What if you are an incapable parent and create little monsters? Despite the far-fetchedness of the plot, that anxiety is very real.

Lesson learned: If kids are a crapshoot for perfect people, let’s not think about the tykes of people who are anything less. You know, people like you.

Promoting fear of adolescence, or, Kirsten Dunst seals the deal:
Interview with the Vampire (1994)
Before now, perhaps you thought Interview with the Vampire was about the homo-eroticism of two effete, beautiful immortals devouring loose Southern women. You’re not wrong. Interview with the Vampire is also about being wary of those teenage years: one day you’re giving them life, the next they’re bitching about puberty and feeding your body to alligators. To make it worse, they’re blaming you for they’re behavior. Equal parts heart-breaking and discomfitting is watching Kirsten Dunst’s Claudia envy the sexuality of grown women — a sexualty that she’ll never have. As Lestat (a creepier than normal Tom Cruise) comes to learn, children are not toys; or, if they are, they are extremely breakable ones who may or may not set you on fire and have uncomfortably sensual moments with Brad Pitt.

Lesson learned: It’s all fun and games until that kid can think for themself and realize you had no business bringing them into this world. And that they want boobs.

Virgin Suicides (1999)
Kirsten goes a different direction in Sofia Coppola’s breakout (I’ll say it) masterpiece. In Interview with the Vampire, Claudia’s adolescent accusations are understandable and even justified. The Lisbon sisters are mysteries to the viewer, and especially to their parents. There are seeds of rebellion and shadows of repression, but the mass suicide (did I give it away?) never ceases to seem a bizarre resolution, nor does the involvement of the neighbor boys. Coppola offers no explanation, just a dark and wistful  tone. Your children, especially once they stop being children, are ultimately unknowns. The Lisobon sisters are no less strange to their parents than Rhoda or Rosemary’s baby. After the primal fears of child-bearing come the social fears of sharing your life with a person who you cared for, but can’t control.There. Teen promiscuity solved by a movie about promiscuous teens (they aren’t all virgins. Did I give it away? BECAUSE THEY DID. SNAP.)

Lesson learned: One day your kids will be as moody and unpredictable as you are now. Also: everyone should own the soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides.

 

So, if common sense isn’t your style, you can Netflix your way to a more perfect society, where people are afraid and ashamed of their bodies and don’t make eye contact with the opposite sex. Any excuse to watch Alien, right?

adulthood.

Sorry, blogowebspherenets. I’ve been away for a very long time. It’s all my fault. I grew up.

I graduated in December, and began working at the Waco VA two weeks later. It was unexpected. Even more unexpected? I absolutely love my job. I rate veterans’ claims and give them the hook-up for their monthly compensation. It’s six months of training, so it’s been pretty intense. Also intense: confronting adulthood. Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

1. Adults very rarely act like adults.
2. Going to bed early never becomes cool, you just stop caring about cool.
3. Drinking on weeknights is somewhat suspect. Getting drunk on weeknights is embarassing. But that’s always been the case for Drunk Kat, who at once wants to disclose every feeling she’s ever had and cry about how she’s scared of feelings. So, some things don’t change.
4. You have to schedule time to relax. Same goes for doing what you love. It becomes even more important once you start slaving for the man.
5. Dental insurance kicks ass.
6. A left-wing pacifist working for the federal government is ironic. Irony pays pretty well.
7. Never, ever, ever let your daughter be a Marine.
8. If they fought for our country, I have to tolerate some dirty old man flirting in the hall. Good thing I already love that business.
9. No matter what you’re doing, it kinda bothers people when you never show up on time. However, in a 40 hour a week/flex time scenario, you can lower that bar and get away with a lot.
10. Being someone worthwhile takes a lot of effort once you emerge from the academic womb.

That’s a start. Really, I just wanted to get that out there and start blogging again. There should be updates soon about puppyventures. And more pen reviews. And more….oh god, blog. I’ve missed ye.

Soon, loves.  

tick-tock goes the puppy clock.

“The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too.”
Samuel Butler 

They say when a woman reaches a certain point in her life, she covets every baby she sees. Every infant that crosses her line of sight becomes the cutest, most desirable child to ever be born. Well, friends, I’ve reached that point — with puppies.

I’ve always been an animal person. When my jr. high peers were greedily baby-sitting, I was putting toddlers down early to play with the dogs. I know my neighbors’ pets names while having never once introduced myself to my neighbors (I’m looking at you, Sam and that blond lady you’re always with!). I try to be fair about the matter: animals are not, for all our romanticized personification, humans. They don’t operate on the same plane with the same needs as we do. I get it, really, I do. But that doesn’t diminish them. They might not love like we love, but they love in their way. A happy, healthy pet has a personality and disposition, a set of quirks and whims that enables a unique relationship. Many times I look at my cat, Liam, right after he’s horked up a piece of plastic or my sweater, and I think, “You dirty little animal.” Then he looks up at me with those green lamp eyes, jumps beside me, wraps his little arm around mine and starts purring, and I think, “You dirty little animal — you know exactly what you’re doing. God, I love you.” Their companionship is easy on good days, and still rewarding on bad — a trait they share with my closest friends.

I love my cat and, in his feline way, he loves me back. He is the first pet that was genuinely mine. I wouldn’t give him up for the world. But, truthfully, my life isn’t complete without a dog.

With the advent of a real job and adulthood, I’ve decided I can finally in good conscience adopt a puppy. Pet owners say you have the best chance of teaching a cat and dog to coexist peacefully if they are opposite genders and at least one of them is young. My own experience has taught me terriers are the best fit for me, because of their size, disposition, and general awesomeness. I’ve narrowed my search down to two breeds: a Yorkshire Terrier or a West Highland White Terrier.

I had a beloved Yorkie in high school. She was unnervingly clever, affectionate, and well-behaved. The joy of small terriers is that, unlike most toy breeds, they were bred with a purpose. The mill workers in Yorkshire weren’t trying to breed a lap dog, they wanted a hunter to catch the mice and rats in the factories. Later, they wanted a dog small enough to slip in their pockets when they poached on the local nobles’ land. Yorkies were bred with subversion in mind, and I don’t think that inclination has ever completely left them. Also, they are occasionally war heroes. So, assuming you didn’t get a sickly, inbred “teacup” Yorkie, you’re getting a real dog only in a very small package.

The same is true of the Westie (of Caesar Dog Food and Black & White scotch fame). Descended from a long line of hunting terriers, the Westie was developed so that its white coat would distinguish it from game and help hunters track it when its enthusiasm took it across the Scottish highlands. Though Westies can be two to three times larger than the Yorkie, they still have disproportionately large personalities — or, as the AKC website puts it, “no small amount of self-esteem.” They are known for their friendly, alert dispositions, trainability, and also general awesomeness. Neither breed sheds and both have a low to negligible amount of dander, reducing allergens and that “wet dog” smell. Also, both breeds are precious-pants. Consider the following:

A Westie puppy.

And a Yorkie puppy.

I’m trying really hard not to squeal over these pictures. 

So, the journey has begun. In six weeks I go for out-of-town training, and I’d like to have a puppy ready by the time I get back. Don’t tell Liam. And expect more ridiculous pictures in the weeks/months to come as I make my decision and welcome a new lil furball into the pack. 

of course i did [warning: explicit, humorous language].

Right now I’m sitting in an echoing corridor of Morrison Hall, poking my head in the two seperate rooms my students are taking their finals in. Why two seperate rooms? Well, I’ll tell you.

I got to campus at 10:30 AM to pick up the tests. After that, I went to grab breakfast on campus with Ezra. So far, so good. At 11:19, I go back to my office to grab the tests, only everyone else had already left and I was locked out. After a good deal of running up and down the dreaded stairs of Carroll Science and a couple of calls from students, I finally make it to Morrison Hall. As I’m walking in, I see both sections of my academic dependents exiting a room that was “crowded as hell.” So, together, we took a little walk around the building, found a couple of empty rooms and got started — though not before I announced that it was “probably a good thing I only had one semester to fuck students up.”

Well, it was bound to happen someday. I finally said “fuck” in front of my students. Two hours shy of leaving with some dignity I said, almost literally, “fuck it.”

Good thing I’ve spent the entire semester conditioning my students to a) not be shocked by anything I might say or do and b) to just roll with it. After dropping the ole f-bomb, showing up 10 minutes late for the final, telling them I wore my new boots so I wouldn’t have to shave my legs, and going pretty much rogue on departmental policy, they just went along with it all, laughing as they did, reminding me to be glad they’d already filled out my student evaluations. As if I hadn’t thought of that. 

While passing out the test, two of my students told me how the other proctors were freaking out and making “executive decisions” in my absence, which I guess is what happens when you’re on top of things as a teacher. I’m actually really proud that my students just up and left, all together, to find me. To quote one student: “They didn’t understand we’ve been with you all semester. 11:30 means 11:45, and everyone would be fine.” It’s taken some of my closest friends a lot longer to figure out the same thing. 

As they’re handing in their test, saying good-byes and wishing happy holidays, they’re telling me how much they enjoyed my class (*ahemgradesnotinyetahem*). I’m pretending it’s not just because of my general spaznuggetry. Each time I say bye, I reminded how this really is what I love doing. Though I’m about to take a couple of years off and work in completely unrelated sector, these kids brought home the reason I got into my discipline to begin with: because I love using English to show students what they’re capable of,  helping them find their voice and be taken seriously. And also to say “fuck” in front 43 college freshmen at the nation’s largest Baptist university. 

teaching: going out with an inappropriate bang.

My little teaching experiment has come to an end. I’m graduating next week (!), I’m going to work at the VA, and I’m taking a break from academe for a bit. The last day of class, I’d planned a lesson on revision, since that was part of their final unit. That fell apart immediately.

I began by switching up the roll call question format. Instead of me asking them a question, they would ask me one. Ezra warned me that this was dangerous, but I expected my students to be too afraid to ask anything inappropriate. What was I thinking? Have I been in class for the last semester?

My 9:30 class had the unofficial goal of figuring out if I smoked pot. To quote one student after class, “Well, people wonder about you.” I got, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”, “Have you ever done anything illegal?”, “Have you ever run from the cops?”, and the phenomenally unsubtle, “Have you done multiple drugs?” I caught him on the multiple bit. What’s that supposed to mean? I got him to narrow it down to coke. Which, clearly if I did coke, they’d be getting their papers back a lot sooner. So no, I don’t do “extreme drugs” (wtf) but I told them stories about people I know who have. Look at me! I’m crossing lines all over the place! Just not those kind of lines. 

After convincing them I was boring, I got somewhat milder questions: “What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done drunk?” was a fun one that I totally answered. I cited my tendency to have heart-to-hearts when I’ve been drinking, and the emotional, very un-Kat melodrama that ensues. They liked that. I got questions about Ezra which he categorically told me not to answer, so I went out of my way to answer and volunteer unsolicited embarrassing stories (”Psssssshh! What is up with you and your jar?!”).

My second class cared more about my political leanings and what I was doing after graduating. One 12:30 student asked if I had to have basketball-sized elbows or knees, which would it be? I answered the only way a “teacher” like myself could: my elbows, because I have really nice legs. They were mildly scandalized. This confirms my long-held suspicion about my classes: 9:30 is quiet but infinitely mischievous, 12:30 is all talk. 

Finally one student asked what I liked best and least about the course. I said what I liked least was the grind. Trying to figure out how to fill class time in the best and most helpful way, being attentive but not babying them, and trying to not burn out completely proved for an unrelenting semester. What I liked best was easy: my students. I met 43 really cool people this semester. I don’t know if I always did right by them, and clearly I need to redefine some boundaries, but they were a joy. I’m going to miss those crazy kids. 

yes, he should.

The Obamas are on the look out for a Presidential Puppy. Sign an online petition reminding our president-elect that pet adoption is always a choice worth considering! Case in point: Liam-Pants (rescued from the Waco Humane Society, 2006).

In related news, Liam’s working on his first blog entry. It’s assured to be a precious reflection on him, and a sad, sad reflection on me. 

would it have been better not to know? yes.

I used a student suggested roll call question last week: if one day you found yourself in jail, what did you most likely do to get there? The answers I got covered a spectrum of things likely to make Ms. Adams uncomfortable, from the slightly disconcerting (”Shoplifting? I don’t know? I just don’t like paying for things?”) to the irritating (”Probably for standing up for something I believed in.”), to the ohgodohgodohgod (”Probably…..torturing and killing someone. Yeah. Someone who made me mad or something.”).

Then we got into the sticky situation of getting caught for something they do on a regular basis. For example, “I’d probably be in a fight. Like last weekend. That cop…man. What was his deal?” Or, “DUI, DWI, one of those. Probably doing something stupid like hitting a pedestrian.” Lots of underage drinking, breaking and entering, and — that perennial favorite — trespassing. 

Trespassing did you say? The top of the Alico building? Waco rights of passage (even though I’ve yet to make the climb), blah blah blah. Then, one of my favorite little deviants goes there:

“You know what another fun building to break into downtown is? That one with the Olive Branch. It’s so easy too! You climb up the fire escape to the third floor and climb in the broken window. They tried to close it up once but…”

You get the picture. My student has been regularly breaking into my apartment building. Terrific. 

adventures in netflixing: reincarnation

Takashi Shimizu’s 2005 Rinne (US Title: Reincarnation) is my first bona fide voyage into the scraggly black hair filled world of J-Horror. I’ve always suspected that I’d enjoy Japan’s creepiest — if I could work up the nerve to sit through a whole film without my eyes covered, and if I could find a film that embodied all the good things about J-Horror, rather than one of the myriad subsequent rip-offs.  In honor of Halloween, I decided to move Reincarnation to the top of my queue and hope for the best. 

Perhaps it was because I watched in the middle of the afternoon, or because I watched on my laptop, or because I had company, but Reincarnation isn’t incredibly scary. It’s better. It is all the things I’ve come to hope for in my encounters with Japanese cinema: it is moody, creepy, and brimming with images that stick with you for the rest of the day. Like peanut butter. Homicidal, voyeuristic peanut butter.

Shimizu (who also co-wrote the script and is best known in the states for directing Ringu) indulges in a little audience misdirection, a little creepy little girl action, and — the coup de grace — a terrifying doll. I’ve long proselytized on behalf of the Japanese classic, Kwaidan (1964), and was interested to see that a lot of the methods for telling ghost stories have stayed the same. CGI is only used a handful of times; for the most part, scares are achieved through the actual story, unfortunate make-up, and — best I can tell — strings (sidenote: is it just me or do Japanese ghosts have more in common with zombies than spectres?), 

Perhaps the cultural element best represented in Reincarnation is what I feel makes Japan better at horror: religion and heritage allow for belief in some pretty far out events.  While the US version of this film would have spent the first two-thirds with everyone thinking the main character is crazy for thinking she is the reincarnated spirit of a murdered girl, her Japanese peers accept it. Their reaction amounts to, “Yeah. So?” This leaves room for the movie to tell its story (the “So?” part), rather than build audience involvement through frustration. 

I would recommend this movie to anyone looking to see why America has spent the last 5-8 years ripping off J-Horror. It’s creepy, yes, but the scares aren’t cheap. Shimizu earns them. In a climate where the first fat to cut in a horror movie is character development, I actually cared about these characters, and the tragedy actually seemed tragic. I give this one a “well-played.”

goodreads review: The Book of Lost Things

The Book of Lost Things, John Connolly.
Acquired: Half-Price Books! whut-whut.

 

In typical Connolly form, The Book of Lost Things is a journey through frayed, twisted, and warped fairy tales. Dealing with loss through a series of alternately light and sinister constructs, Connolly tells a typical coming-of-age story in atypical fashion. It was a bit weak at points, but when it was on, it was poignant and memorable. I’d recommend it to anyone looking for a quick read that gives them something to talk about. Best part: the communist dwarves. Clearly. Every book needs more of those.

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goodreads review: World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War

World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War, Max Brooks
Acquired: Gift from Cameron

 

This was a gift last Christmas, and I read it just in time for Halloween. I was really impressed with this so-called oral history of the zombie war: it’s immersing and touching, embracing the “human factor” along an oft-traversed horror terrain. Like all good zombie films, it embraces the flexibility of the living dead to encompass multiple metaphors. The most predominate metaphor in World War Z is the pervasive xenophobia and bureaucracy of the day that keeps us from any sort of true progress. Ulysses it is not, but it is certainly a cut above typical horror fare. 

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