The Outside Lane

I was 17 years old when Heathers hit theaters.  Because my parents were sticklers for ratings, I was not allowed to see it.  It would be two more years before I could put the cinematic thrust behind my asking, “What’s your damage?” and my crush on Christian Slater had already started percolating with Name of the Rose (you can see his butt!  Christian Slater’s was the first adult male butt I ever saw) .

My recollection is of watching this with a friend and of being first horrified, and then laughing because I was so horrified, then measuring my reactions against my friend’s and thinking I needed to suck it up and get with the program, and then running out to buy a red scrunchie.  By the third viewing, I was snarking along with Heather Chandler, and working to hone my sensibilities into something less whitebread and more apple-with-hidden-razor sharpness.

Truth is, I was never entirely comfortable with the movie, but I could enjoy it, laugh at it, and quote it without compunction.  I was a Veronica, haplessly following the crowd of Heathers lovers into the attempted murders of my conscience, linguistic creativity, and fashion.  Not that I needed much coaxing, as I had a mean streak a mile wide, just waiting for proper venue.  I may not have ever been as popular as a Heather, but I could have eaten all three of them for lunch out of just sheer meanness.  (Fortunately, I had the whole religious conversion, and that pretty much made the evil-girl-as-entertainment a thing of the past.)

However many decades later, Mean Girls arrived.  This was a post-Columbine Heathers I could get fully behind.  All of the ugly nature of high school without the teen angst having a body count.  Somewhere between the two, I saw Jawbreaker, a movie that so horrified me I couldn’t even look at Rose McGowan for years.  (There was a scene with Rose and her then lover Marilyn Manson that made me want to bleach my brain.)

Last night I watched Jennifer’s Body.  As I was watching, my heart sinking lower and lower against my stomach, I realized that somewhere between Heathers, Jawbreaker, and Mean Girls, I had become a parent.  I wasn’t watching the film through the eyes of a woman who might have been a Heather, or a Veronica, or a Violet, or a Regina, or a Cady, or a Jennifer, or a Needy.  I was watching the film through the eyes of a woman who might have been one of their mothers.

Suddenly, and I mean suddenly, it hit me.  “I love my dead, gay son!” Wasn’t funny.  It wasn’t funny that a parent had lost a child in a senseless act of violence, that was entertainment for the murderer, or that the child had been framed into a position that would have been painful to him and his family, for his family to have to grapple with the untruth that their son had committed suicide because they hadn’t known or accepted their child for what he was in life.  Do you have any idea how it would destroy me to think that my son had killed himself because I didn’t accept him?  I could not live thinking I had contributed to my child’s death.

It wasn’t funny that Regina George broke hundreds of hearts with one massive photocopy distribution. 

Nothing about Jennifer’s Body, but the sometime-zinging dialog, was funny.  I didn’t laugh once.  Maybe I would have five years ago, but last night, I just sat there with one eye on my son’s bedroom door.  The movie wasn’t bad.  It was decently acted, and well-written, but…

One scene in particular took away my breath for a moment.  As mourners gather for Colin Gray’s funeral, one of Jennifer’s recent victims, a sweet seeming Goth boy, his friends act out dramatically and Colin’s mother reacts.*  From the script: 

 GOTH BOY
                    Colin wouldn’t have liked this.
                                  MRS. GRAY
                         (losing it)
                    Oh, you think so, Powder? Yeah,
                    you’re right! I’m pretty sure my
                    son wouldn’t have liked being
                    eaten by a fucking CANNIBAL and
                    buried before his eighteenth
                    birthday! Wow, you must have known
                    him so well!
                                    MR. GRAY
                    Jill…
          The goth boy looks terrified. But Mrs. Gray’s not done
          ranting yet.
                                   MRS. GRAY
                    By the time they found Colin in
                    that godforsaken house, he looked
                    like lasagna with teeth. I’d know–
                    I had to identify the remains. My
                    boy’s not in the realm of the
                    undead. He’s not flying around in
                    the firmament with magical wings
                    of flame. He’s in an overpriced
                    rosewood box that’s headed six
                    feet downtown.
          She kicks the coffin to illustrate.
         
         
         
                                                          (CONTINUED)
         
                                                               82.
          CONTINUED: (4)
         
                                  MRS. GRAY (CONT’D)
                    So you can take your pain and
                    shove it up your asses, kids.
                    I got the monopoly on pain!
          The kids stare at her in awe. Needy watches as Mrs. Gray
          collapses into Mr. Gray’s arms.

Broke. My. Heart.

And when the demon possessing Jennifer’s Body meets its demise, the reaction of her unsuspecting mother, who only sees that she has narrowly missed the window of opportunity to save her daughter’s life, was harrowing to me.  She just needed a few seconds of time back! 

It was a horror movie in the truest sense of the word.  One that dealt (although shortly) with repercussions rather than just the adrenaline rush of the scare and tear.

I give Diablo Cody credit for dealing with the parents’ reactions beyond making their grief comic relief.  I do wish we’d seen more of the parents prior to all the destruction.  I can’t help but think if Jennifer’s mother had been a little more involved, she never would have ended up in that kidnap van.  Or if Needy’s mother were more concerned with her daughter, or if Chip’s mother had refused to let him walk alone at night, after two grisly murders, if those things had happened, there would be less heartache.  There would also be less movie.

Thing is, Jennifer’s Body could have been any child’s body.  Her victims, any children I know and love.  As a mother, a godparent, and ceremonial auntie, I could not enjoy watching.  Even imaginary people have imaginary parents, friends, and family, and I can’t stand having that Greek chorus wailing in the back of my mind.  Don’t even get me started on slasher films, or torture porn. 

It made me thank God for my restrictive parents, who wouldn’t even bend the rules to let me watch R-rated movies.  I hope my son is so grateful when I win the fight with his father over whether or not he has a curfew on prom night. 

* I have to admit to a monstrous thing I did as a teen.  When we were Seniors, a boy I knew peripherally was killed in a very bad car accident.  It was the sixth peer death I had experienced in my four years of high school.  This boy was very popular, and his funeral drew a massive crowd.  I did not know him well, did not particularly care for what I did know, and had turned him down for a date, so he wasn’t exactly fond of me.  But it was a half day out of clases, and knowing the girls he had been close to, I figured it might be a good show.   I went to the funeral out of morbid curiousity.

It was at this funeral, I should not even have attended, that I learned I had inappropriate laughter issues–it is a real thing, people.  (Whenever I am really afraid, nervous, or angry, I laugh.  Can’t help it.)  I did manage to keep my volume down, but as the teenaged girls in the front of the church began to sob, scream, and wail as dramatically as only teenaged girls or hired keeners can do, I started to laugh. 

I had the good sense to be ashamed of myself and to get out of there, and I did send the family a card afterward, sincerely expressing concern and apologizing, but I haven’t ever quite gotten over how incredibly rude and cruel that was.  It still makes me sick.