The Living Experiment
I lost it at the movies the other day. My husband and I took our first- and fourth- grade children to a "kid flick" matinee. The theater was packed with children so small that most of their heads failed to reach the top of the chairs.
When the lights dimmed, horrific action clips appeared - extremely loud and larger than life - and this before an animated bug movie. Blood-curdling screams, guns, knives, bloody faces, and shouted murderous threats engulfed the theater. My husband and I exchanged deeply furrowed brows. The first preview ended, and the theater was silent in palpable shock. The second preview was worse than the first and by its end, I was upset.
Then the screen went black, the house lights lit, and a bored usher droned about putting on the wrong previews and our needing to wait for the right one.
No apologies for the inconvenience. No apologies for the utter inappropriateness of what hundreds of children had just seen.
I was out of my chair and marching out of the theater before I could think. A lynch mob forming just outside the doors loudly demanded to see the manager, who was one of two young guys in suits and walkie talkies standing around.
The parents were yelling, ranting and raving at the outrageousness of showing mega-violent film clips to a theater full of very young children.
And I am ashamed to say that I was ranting and raving the loudest.
I demanded that, at the very least, the manager needed to go in and apologize to the audience. Backed into a corner by a group of highly-irate parents, he promised apologies and complimentary movie passes for everyone.
The manager then apologized to the audience for the inconvenience and violence but stopped short of offering the passes.
Had my blood stopped boiling I might have left it alone, but instead, I cupped my hands, asked for attention, and said, "He failed to mention something he had promised out in the hallway, and that is that everyone will be given free movie passes, because of what happened here today."
Once finally seated for the show, I was mortified by what I had just done. After the movie, I was enough of a weasel to disguise myself by removing my jacket, tucking my hair behind my ears, and praying I wouldn't run into anyone I knew.
I naively hoped the theater would hand out the passes as we exited the velvet curtains, which, of course, they didn't do. A handful of people lined up at the customer service window, but I would have preferred the whole theater showing their disapproval by demanding recompense.
That day wasn't the first of such frustrations. I have been appalled countless times when violent or sexually-explicit commercials air during family television shows. What is the point of offering G-rated shows when the commercials are R-rated? Why can't advertising match programming? I cringe when family shows include commercials filled with shootings, knifings, hostage-takings, screaming. In school and at home, we strive to teach impulse control, especially when kids are angry. These commercials are shining examples of extraordinarily poor impulse control.
And now I can be accused of the same. I stormed out of that theater and loudly attacked the hapless manager. A uniformed security guard was even on hand, and this was a first for me. I have never before been the cause of beefed up security.
The whole thing left me feeling awful. I was angry at the error and the pathetic theater response. I was appalled by my own vehement reaction and subsequent weasel-like remorse, and by the apathy of the theater-goers who just sat back and accepted the horror their children had witnessed. But most of all, I felt sorry for the kids and hoped their dreams were forever sweet and free of nightmares.
Kerri Havnen Gordon writes The Living Experiment monthly for the Town Crier.