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?

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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.”

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adventures in netflixing: lars and the real girl

Nota Bene:
I live in Waco. We get no good movies. So when a movie I want to see is released, I have the following options: 1) drive to Dallas, 2) drive to Austin, 3) pray someone at the Starplex Galaxy made a mistake and gives us the movie for about 6 days by accident (I’m looking at you, King of Kong) or 4) stare longingly at all the glowing reviews from sources I trust, and patiently wait for Netflix to bridge the gaping void between Waco and cultural enjoyment. Most likely, Netflix it is. That does mean, however, that these titles will have been out for so long that my responses won’t really be reviews.  Just reactions from an enthusiastic Jenny Come Lately.

Lars and the Real Girl
dir. Craig Gillespie
Release Date: 12 October 2007 (limited)

 

About a month before watching Lars and the Real Girl, I watched and subsequently felt uneasy about Love Me, Love My Doll, an hour-long documentary on Real Dolls (as featured in LatRG) and the men who, well, love them.  Thanks, BBCAmerica!

If you go to the Real Dolls website (which I did just now), you will find the following disclaimer:

“I understand that when I gain access to this site, I will be exposed to visual images, verbal descriptions and audio sounds of a sexually oriented, frankly erotic nature, which may include graphic visual depictions and descriptions of nudity and sexual activity. I am voluntarily choosing to do so, because I want to view, read and/or hear the various materials which are available, for my own personal enjoyment, information and/or education. My choice is a manifestation of my interest in sexual matters, which is both healthy and normal and, which, in my experience, is generally shared by average adults in my community. I am familiar with the standards in my community regarding the acceptance of such sexually oriented materials, and the materials I expect to encounter are within those standards. In my judgement, the average adult in my community accepts the consumption of such materials by willing adults in cirumstances such as this which offer reasonable insulation from the materials for minors and unwilling adults, and will not find such materials to appeal to a prurient interest or to be patently offensive.”

 I haven’t moved past this screen. It’s not because I find it unappealing to my prurient interests or to be patently offensive… Actually, I think that’s exactly why I haven’t moved past this screen. And I feel a little ashamed about that.  The chunk of brain that spends it’s time convincing the rest of me to be hip is revolting against what must surely be some latent evangelical hang-up. We’re sexual beings, man, let’s embrace it. “Unwilling adults” are the new squares.

But when it comes to sex $10,000, customized sex dolls, I’m having some trouble being cool with it.  I’m working my way toward empathy, but the execution makes me feel all wrong and lopsided inside. Two consenting adults can and should do whatever they want. Even one consenting adult has a whole (but, I guess, limited) universe of fun little possibilities. But there is something about a human-shaped toy that troubles me. What the disclaimer is getting at is that if you have any sort of problem with plastophilia, then don’t go gawking at those who don’t. Only it said it more salaciously.

The Real Dolls website and Lars and the Real Girl actually share a central theme: community. Hang with me for a second. In LatRG, Lars struggles with profound isolation and social defeciencies.  He is incapable of connecting with his community, so he creates his own social training wheels: Bianca. A Real Doll. Also, a parapalegic missionary. So great. Anyway, once Lars’ brother and sister-in-law realize that Lars is suffering from a pretty profound delusion, his brother’s first concern is — to quote Cat Power — “What will the community think?”. Dagmar, the kind and endlessly patient town doctor, tells him (and I’m obviously paraphrasing here): the community will think Lars is crazy, and they’ll think you’re crazy for humoring him, but as compassionate human beings we really don’t have much of a choice. In the end, the community has nothing but love and support for Lars and, in a sweet little glimmer of hope that made this realist’s heart thaw a bit — Lars responds by joining the community. 

The Real Doll disclaimer addresses some similiar issues. It’s not much of a disclaimer, really; it’s more of an affirmer: “My choice is a manifestation of my interest in sexual matters, which is both healthy and normal and, which, in my experience, is generally shared by average adults in my community.” And who doesn’t want to be an average adult? (digressive hint: me and probably all the rest of the average adults). Yet, I felt the men profiled in Love Me, Love My Doll, the dolls were not a hobby or a healthy sexual interest, but an alternative to community. The bizarrely “there-there” nature of the disclaimer supports my impression. If you have to keep telling your customers that they’re normal, healthy, and acting in a reasonable way, I begin to think you’re selling something that most people “in the community” would find troubling. In almost every case, these men were angry at the people who had come in and subsequently out of their lives.  After years of desperation, silicone seemed like the better choice.  It’s difficult not to watch the program and feel pity for these men. But it’s also difficult to watch it and feel like what’s happening is okay. These men don’t have problems in their relationships with their dolls: they’ve created wax women with obscenely submissive personalities.  They feel they’ve found a loophole. Evidently, socialization is one area of life where it doesn’t pay to cut corners. It has sunk each man deeper into isolation, with only a 125 lb stigma to keep him company.

The point when we realize Lars is going to be okay is not when he says, “Wait, a minute! Bianca never speaks!”, which is probably because Lars never arrives at that point. We know he’s going to be okay when he and Bianca start having problems. People and conflict are inseperable, even if the “people” part involves someone who is maybe just a touch imaginary. Lars learns to embrace the whole of the social experience.  After imagining acceptance, he is compelled to imagine rejection as well, otherwise he’d be just as lonely. Unlike the dolls of Love Me, Love My Doll. Bianca isn’t a placebo. She’s a genuine cure. And the illness isn’t self-satisfaction, it’s finding one’s place.

 

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Adventures in Netflixing

Lars and the Real Girl came in yesterday. I’m Not There just shipped. Huzzahs all around. I plan to post some sort of response to every Netflix title I receive, so this should make for a helpful start.

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