by Lucinda Ulrich
Daily Lobo columnist
There I am - sitting in the dark, laughing through some silly previews, munching on cholesterol-ridden popcorn, happily filling my arteries with fat and sucking down caffeine-laden soda. Mostly just looking forward to two hours of escape from the daily stress called my life. So far, so good. The previews end, the lights dim and I settle in for some good old-fashioned entertainment in the form of Quentin Tarantino's ultra-violent "Kill Bill Vol. 2."
But then I see them, running to their seats just as darkness falls. Finding their way by the flicker of the light from the screen. Was that a baby I saw? A baby? In a movie like this? Why would anyone take a baby to this movie?
As a mother of a young child - 14 months to be exact - and a busy graduate student, I can understand the desperation that fuels decisions such as "Let's take the 3-year-old to 'Kill Bill'," since there's nothing really disturbing in the movie that may scare the poor kid. Why, it's the closest thing to an old-school Disney movie that I know of - Tarantino's movies are always tame."
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I wish I was kidding, but I'm not. I went to the dollar movies, and there I was eating my overpriced popcorn, when they ran in with - you guessed it - a little pre-kindergarten boy.
Now I don't know about all you parents out there, but the minute I found out I was about to be a mother, I read everything about child development I could get my hands on. I guess I took Keanu Reeves seriously when he noted in "Parenthood" that they make you go to school to learn how to drive but any old schmuck can have a kid.
I didn't want to be a schmuck, so I set out to learn all I could about this mysterious new package called a baby that was about to come into our lives. It's a simple but powerful equation: Parenthood equals responsibility.
Don't get me wrong. I wanted to enjoy the movie. I paid a whole dollar, after all. But it was impossible. I mean, at one point in the movie Uma Thurman is buried alive. Now, I'm no psychologist, but when I hear a little kid say things like, "I don't like this, Daddy, I don't like this, I'm scared, Daddy, I want to go home," I wonder if perhaps the kid maybe really doesn't like this.
And when the lights came up and the credits rolled across the screen, I impulsively approached the young couple. At first I smiled sweetly, I told them how cute their son was. Then I asked how old he was.
"Three," they said, smiling back.
"Three, huh?" They nodded.
Then I did it. I just couldn't help myself. "Do you think a movie like this is appropriate for a 3-year-old?" Their mouths dropped open. They looked nervous, anxious, suddenly unprepared.
The woman rushed to defend. "He doesn't know what he's seeing. He doesn't understand what's going on."
"Oh. You're sure about that? He sounded pretty scared to me." The dad rushed them ahead, pushing through the crowd to the waiting light of day. I felt embarrassed and proud - embarrassed that I couldn't keep my mouth shut and proud that I spoke up.
I thought of how many times I stood by while some frantic-eyed woman screamed and hit her kid in the line at the grocery store and I said nothing.
While I can relate to the desperate need parents feel to do adult things like seeing violent movies, I cannot relate to the need being so great that they bring a 3-year-old to a movie like that. I mean, have these people heard of video rental? Is going to the movies so important that it's worth possibly psychologically damaging your child?
I thought I was over the "Kill Bill" incident until I went to see the rather disturbing, supposedly child-friendly "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" at - you guessed it - the dollar movies. In the theater, I saw two babies.
I kept thinking about how much money some lucky shrink is going to make from these children when they grow up and try to unravel the irrational fears of cloned little people in shiny suits dancing to bad synchronized music that permeate their lives, making it impossible for them to function like normal members of society.
But I let it go. I tried to let it go.
