...And Baby Makes Three
AVS’s fascinating socio-scientific analysis of AVP inspired me to make even more charts. I took up her lead, straight from the sexology angle, and drew my own conclusions about the film’s base elements…
ALIEN
Has a pistoning, penetrating auxiliary mandible
Has acid for blood
Belongs to a mysterious ancient species that seems to exist everywhere in time and space
PREDATOR
Um…has been called “pussyface”
Has Koolaid EctoCooler for blood
Belongs to the Parliament Funkadelic
…am I wrong? Of course not. Admit it, you’ve been marveling at the Predator’s natty dreads for some time now. That countercultural fashion statement has allowed you to forgive the fact that, as far as being the ultimate hunter goes, he doesn’t seem to see very well (everything reads as blobs that only differentiate what’s dead from what’s not) or hear very well (re: that looping tinny echo effect that makes everything sound the way it must to James Hetfield), and caused you to continue to deem him Totally Rad through three movies. You overlooked the erotic undertone of the sweating straining Tom of Finland cartoon that was his film debut, in which the Predator struts around in his little mesh shirt looking like he’s waiting for his chaps to come back from the drycleaners so he and Arnie can go cruising, because those dreadlocks are so epically awesome. You sat through a second movie of this overgrown double-Y club kid loping around LA like Boba Fett’s special little brother pursuing Danny Glover’s bubbalicious butt because you were wondering how to groom your own goth-industrial chic tresses into the cyberpunk wet dream that is the Predator’s famous coif. Or maybe you just think the Predator movies are really good. In any case, you’ve been wondering about those dreadlocks. For me, this psychological journey ended after the climax of AVP, when the mothership lands and P-Funk is born away by his family of grunting, natty-haired, decadently-ornamented space aliens into a dense bank of whirling twisting psychedelically-lit smoke. Then the old shriveled-up granddaddy comes out, who is unmistakably George Clinton, and all but hands our heroine the bop gun. Oh. Thanks for clearing that up.
But before we veer too far from the previous discussion of reproductive organs, I’d like to pull on your coat about the actual viewing experience of the aforementioned Godzillian clash. When the Amy of Darkness and I attended a late nite screening of AVP at our local megaplex, we began to notice a peculiar sound back and to the left of us as the end credits crawled away. “Is that a wounded animal?” Ms. Of Darkness inquired. No, of course not. Silly. That’s a mewling infant. I mean, what better date for the 10 O’clock show of an inner ear-rupturingly loud display of hottt monster-on-monster action than a barely-formed homunculus? He’s sweet, he’s sensitive, he’s clearly not afraid to cry at the movies, and you can almost guarantee yourself no cheeky popcorn box antics.
Apparently, such was the mindset of the impressive quantity of broodmares who took not one but, I don’t know, a hundred of their toddling byproducts to the midnight show of Exorcist: The Beginning. Some of you may have wondered, “Who is the target demographic of Exorcist: The Beginning?” I got your answer. Wee little babies. Or, better yet, post-babies who are just capable of comprehending something about the Devil, something about the Holocaust, and something about the fact that this whole movie is about dead children. It’s just like showing them The Miracle of Birth, only, you know, kind of the opposite. You probably know by now that the bulk of this prequel’s fright arsenal is composed of images of a prepubescent urchin being torn to tiny pieces by CGI hyenas, a maggot-infested stillborn, and of course, endless slo-mo footage of fat-faced cherubs having their brains blown out. Now, if I might get a little bit personal with all y’all, I remember catching The Omen II on television when I was something like a fat-faced cherub myself, and I vividly recall being tucked in to bed that night and asking before the lights went out, “Mommy…is there really an Antichrist?” Har de har har. Kids say the darndest things. Now, I count myself very lucky that I was in the presence of a sympathetic and articulate parent in the privacy of our home when the question that would eat away at my psyche for the rest of my natural life arose. Unfortunately, such was not the case for the little man who audibly burst into tears when a young boy not unlike himself was dragged off in tatters by a gaggle of satanically-possessed desert varmints on screen, nor many others who had similar reactions to the sight of the pink, pouty little putti whose brains are used to paint the town red by a roving squadron of SS. Over and over again. In slow motion. Good times. Well, maybe I’m in no position to question, I’m not a parent. Maybe it’s good for the little troops. Builds character. Maybe I should feel inspired by this brave and honest move to subject young’uns to all worldly possibilities for horror as early as possible. It’s sweeping the nation. Perhaps we’ll get a new book that helps parents be frank with their children, a companion piece to the internationally successful Japanese offering Everybody Poops. It could be called Everybody Dies Horribly. Or everybody could just keep bringing their wimpy babies to witching hour screenings of gruesome horror sequels and totally wreck my shot at ever having a nice evening at the theater again without the aid of cheeky popcorn box antics.
ALIEN
Has a pistoning, penetrating auxiliary mandible
Has acid for blood
Belongs to a mysterious ancient species that seems to exist everywhere in time and space
PREDATOR
Um…has been called “pussyface”
Has Koolaid EctoCooler for blood
Belongs to the Parliament Funkadelic
…am I wrong? Of course not. Admit it, you’ve been marveling at the Predator’s natty dreads for some time now. That countercultural fashion statement has allowed you to forgive the fact that, as far as being the ultimate hunter goes, he doesn’t seem to see very well (everything reads as blobs that only differentiate what’s dead from what’s not) or hear very well (re: that looping tinny echo effect that makes everything sound the way it must to James Hetfield), and caused you to continue to deem him Totally Rad through three movies. You overlooked the erotic undertone of the sweating straining Tom of Finland cartoon that was his film debut, in which the Predator struts around in his little mesh shirt looking like he’s waiting for his chaps to come back from the drycleaners so he and Arnie can go cruising, because those dreadlocks are so epically awesome. You sat through a second movie of this overgrown double-Y club kid loping around LA like Boba Fett’s special little brother pursuing Danny Glover’s bubbalicious butt because you were wondering how to groom your own goth-industrial chic tresses into the cyberpunk wet dream that is the Predator’s famous coif. Or maybe you just think the Predator movies are really good. In any case, you’ve been wondering about those dreadlocks. For me, this psychological journey ended after the climax of AVP, when the mothership lands and P-Funk is born away by his family of grunting, natty-haired, decadently-ornamented space aliens into a dense bank of whirling twisting psychedelically-lit smoke. Then the old shriveled-up granddaddy comes out, who is unmistakably George Clinton, and all but hands our heroine the bop gun. Oh. Thanks for clearing that up.
But before we veer too far from the previous discussion of reproductive organs, I’d like to pull on your coat about the actual viewing experience of the aforementioned Godzillian clash. When the Amy of Darkness and I attended a late nite screening of AVP at our local megaplex, we began to notice a peculiar sound back and to the left of us as the end credits crawled away. “Is that a wounded animal?” Ms. Of Darkness inquired. No, of course not. Silly. That’s a mewling infant. I mean, what better date for the 10 O’clock show of an inner ear-rupturingly loud display of hottt monster-on-monster action than a barely-formed homunculus? He’s sweet, he’s sensitive, he’s clearly not afraid to cry at the movies, and you can almost guarantee yourself no cheeky popcorn box antics.
Apparently, such was the mindset of the impressive quantity of broodmares who took not one but, I don’t know, a hundred of their toddling byproducts to the midnight show of Exorcist: The Beginning. Some of you may have wondered, “Who is the target demographic of Exorcist: The Beginning?” I got your answer. Wee little babies. Or, better yet, post-babies who are just capable of comprehending something about the Devil, something about the Holocaust, and something about the fact that this whole movie is about dead children. It’s just like showing them The Miracle of Birth, only, you know, kind of the opposite. You probably know by now that the bulk of this prequel’s fright arsenal is composed of images of a prepubescent urchin being torn to tiny pieces by CGI hyenas, a maggot-infested stillborn, and of course, endless slo-mo footage of fat-faced cherubs having their brains blown out. Now, if I might get a little bit personal with all y’all, I remember catching The Omen II on television when I was something like a fat-faced cherub myself, and I vividly recall being tucked in to bed that night and asking before the lights went out, “Mommy…is there really an Antichrist?” Har de har har. Kids say the darndest things. Now, I count myself very lucky that I was in the presence of a sympathetic and articulate parent in the privacy of our home when the question that would eat away at my psyche for the rest of my natural life arose. Unfortunately, such was not the case for the little man who audibly burst into tears when a young boy not unlike himself was dragged off in tatters by a gaggle of satanically-possessed desert varmints on screen, nor many others who had similar reactions to the sight of the pink, pouty little putti whose brains are used to paint the town red by a roving squadron of SS. Over and over again. In slow motion. Good times. Well, maybe I’m in no position to question, I’m not a parent. Maybe it’s good for the little troops. Builds character. Maybe I should feel inspired by this brave and honest move to subject young’uns to all worldly possibilities for horror as early as possible. It’s sweeping the nation. Perhaps we’ll get a new book that helps parents be frank with their children, a companion piece to the internationally successful Japanese offering Everybody Poops. It could be called Everybody Dies Horribly. Or everybody could just keep bringing their wimpy babies to witching hour screenings of gruesome horror sequels and totally wreck my shot at ever having a nice evening at the theater again without the aid of cheeky popcorn box antics.
posted by claire donner at Monday, September 06, 2004
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