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

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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Popular Tripe, Sloppy Methods, and Questionable Conclusions

I have long been held in the throes of a catastrophic delusion: I think I am a mult-tasker. I’m not. I’m diagnosed ADD and have the same attention span/interests as my cat. However, whenever I buckle down to take on a task — folding laundry, reading articles, writing this so-called “thesis” — I always think I’ll just pop in a movie for a little background noise.

This never works.

However, through extensive research, I have come up with the absolute best movie to not be busy to. Are you ready? Ghostbusters.

  

Yes. Ivan Reitman’s 1984’s classic, Ghostbusters is hands down the best film to have playing whilst wallowing in unproductivity.  It meets all my requirements for an accomplishment-free time filler. It’s played on TNT/TBS/FX/Fox Movie Network ad nauseum, so I’m able to convince myself I won’t really watch it. Just like I don’t really watch it every Saturday when it comes on (hint: I’m lying. I will always stop whatever I’m doing to watch Ghostbusters).  

Second, it’s the sort of movie that, in theory, will not offer anything substantial enough to tug at my attentions. It’s fluffy; it’s harmless; it’s a loosely bound collection of jokes based on Dan Akroyd and Harold Ramis’ ability to play nerdy, Rick Moranis’ ability to play awkward, Annie Pott’s ability to talk nasally, and Bill Murray’s ability to be Bill Murray. That’s absolutely true. Guess what I love? ALL OF THOSE THINGS. I can’t look away from Bill Murray being Bill Murray ever. Ever. And I don’t want to be the sort of person who could. As an added bonus, Akroyd, Ramis, and Murray play disillusioned academics alienated and rejected by the very institution which they’ve built their life around. It’s the scariest part of the movie.

The final straw on the camel of diligence’s back is this: five years later, they made another one. Ghostbuster’s II is exactly like Ghostbusters.  Yes, they relied on the trusty crutch of a baby to highten the drama, but ultimately it’s more of the same. More of the beautiful same.  It’s an affinity Ghostbusters shares with my second choice for background/foreground noise, Alien and Aliens. Also, they share Sigourney Weaver. And in their second installments each introduces and subsequently endangers a child. And they both showcase dripping goo. Turns out they may have more in common than I first thought. 

Most importantly, I walk away from my hours languishing on my couch, balancing my over-heating laptop on my knee, as please as if I’d been productive. Thanks to Mr. Reitman, I never feel badly about not accomplishing much. Because, I mean, I just finished Ghostbusters. What do I have to be unhappy about?

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