Babyman is terrified. Hands covering his ears, little body quivering. On his lap, his Lego rocket-blaster from the Cars 2 collection is locked and loaded, ready to fire if necessary. Snuggled between us, a floppy Woody doll smiles benignly at the television screen, where a fight-to-the-death battle between Buzz Lightyear and the Evil Emperor Zurg has Babyman utterly riveted.
It is our second pass at Toy Story 2, and at Babyman’s request we are watching it without sound.
I will confess to forcing the issue a little bit. I am of the opinion that a little fear is constructive, particularly if Babyman figures out a way to move through it. Toy Story 2 isn’t the first movie that scared Babyman and it won’t be the last. History has shown that as he gets familiar with the plot and the characters, what started as fear becomes more like a rush.
Like the rest of the known universe, I went on a Hunger Games binge earlier this year. I read all three of the books — which, fortunately for my cluttered brain, are written for the “tween” audience — and then (if you have small kids you will understand what a big deal this is) I went to the movie. In the theater. It was pretty awesome (going to the movies, I mean).
I work in a school and the Grade 7 kids had also read The Hunger Games in class, so I had some fun chatting with the girls about the book and the movie (Gale or Peeta?). Then the counselor at the school suggested a schoolwide field trip to see the film Bully.
Bully is rated R. The Huger Games, with its wanton child-on-child violence, is rated PG-13. You can read more about the ratings irony in a short, intelligent article from Time. But beyond the black-and-white concerns about profanity, sex, and violence, what interests me is the idea that there is something inherently more disturbing about Bully because it’s real. The cruelty, the violence, the tears: they are not the creative imaginings of a dystopian future, but rather the harsh reality for the children at the heart of Bully.
Not to geek out too much, but all of this got me thinking about Bruno Bettelheim, the psychologist who wrote The Uses of Enchantment. I actually think about Bettelheim a lot now that I have children, and those children develop fears both rational (bees) and puzzling (fruit). I appreciate his assertion that fairy tales — the really gory, truly frightening versions from the Grimm brothers and their cohort — provide a venue for children to experience and explore fear from a safe distance, often in the company of people who love them. They are therefore better equipped to respond to fear when they encounter it for real. I’d like to think I’m doing Babyman a little favor by pushing his boundaries once in a while; it was a triumph when, eventually, he turned to me
and said “I don’t need to be afraid of Zurg, because he’s in the movie,
and not really here with us.”
But it’s the films like Bully that really put Bettelheim to the test. On our school trip, more than one student cried when the movie was over. (The rating was eventually adjusted to allow the film to reach its intended audience.) The conversation that followed was honest, and constructive, and forced the kids to reflect on their own humanity. Will they be kinder to another as a result? Perhaps not all the time, but in quiet moments they will think about the film, and how it made them feel.
My wee ones are just now learning the power of words to hurt or heal. In a
few short years, they will be on their own in the minefield of
adolescence, and I can only hope that they’ve learned to cope with fear
enough to make good decisions in the face of it.
My husband and I were talking the other night about heartbreak. Someday, someone will break Babyman’s heart. And then someone else will break Babygirl’s. (Although Babygirl, big old flirt that she has turned out to be, will very likely break some hearts along the way herself, heaven help us). And we will be powerless to protect them, left to triage with Kleenex and Say Anything or maybe just some respectful space. Talk about terrifying…
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