Since when does an R-rating mean bring the whole clan to see the picture? I remember friends in school whose parents allowed them to see some R-rated movies, but it was usually something like the Terminator or Rambo and said friends were in the age range of 14-16. Heck, I saw Terminator at 13 at a friend’s house and thought it was fun. What a trip, a big robot with red eyes! How cool!
Maybe it’s just me, but there’s a big difference between a robot who shoots security guards (as a matter of fact, I don’t remember that flick being particularly gory…just lots of bullets) and for some reason speaks terrible English and fucking zombies tearing limbs off of bodies and eathing from people’s throats. Land of the Dead is hands down one of the goriest movies I’ve ever seen. Ever. It’s George fucking Romero, so you know it’s going to get gratuitous. These movies appeal to me personally because they are so absurdly gratuitous. I find them hilarious.
But in the theater with me were a half-dozen pre-teen kids. I don’t know how funny they found it.
One man had three little girls in tow. They looked nice and pleasant, not like white-trash who couldn’t be bothered to spare themselves nightmares and trauma. To their credit, these girls didn’t scream or cry or run out or natter amongst themselves. Perhaps they were dwarves. I don’t know. But I wonder what seeing a zombie reaching his entire arm down the throat of a dead body, pulling something out and chomping away did to their sensibilities. I wonder what they thought of Dennis Hopper blowing away some poor guy who hadn’t done anything wrong. I wonder what impression it made to see people being eaten alive.
Another couple brought their two cornfed, mongoloid children to sit right in front of my woman and I. I have no concerns about how the movie affected these two cherubic lunchboxes because they didn’t pay attention to a goddamn second of it. Little Missy McThunderchunk talked from the second she planted her prodigious posterior in her seat. She paused only to cram another handful of Goobers and Junior Mints in her maw. Lady Mung and I moved to the opposite end of the row soon after she waddled in. Moving, though, did not prevent Little Mister McThunderchunk from disturbing us from across the theater. Oh no, he would not be denied. He lifted his bloated roly-poly ass out of his seat and, determined to distract every last motherfucker in the theater, proceeded to STOMP STOMP STOMP stomp himself up and down the side aisle steps. I wanted to stand up and yank his buttery little arm and drag his sorry token-trailer sized body to his seat.
I didn’t complain about noisy kids when I saw Madagascar or The Incredibles, but I’m tired of being disturbed by children in movies in which they have no business being. I forget sometimes that I can’t always assume people have more sense than to bring kids into pictures like Vanilla Sky, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Kill Bill, Collateral, Bad Santa. And we wonder why we’re desensitized. I really believe these folks are the intellectual equivalents of Yugos. And I hope the kids kept their parents up all night with screaming nightmares of zombies and evil black gas station attendants.
If the kids are old enough, buy them tickets to another movie and send them on their way. That strategy worked well enough in my family. Or, find a babysitter. Or, just rent a movie and let your idiot spawn see boobies and throat slashing with you on your cheeto encrusted couch at home. Keep 'em out of the theater, you halfwits.
