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As parents we expend a great deal of energy making sure our kids see only age-appropriate movies. Even Disney adventures can be vetoed if they are deemed too frightening for your sensitive 6-year-old or perhaps you take “PG-13″ to heart and never waver. 



So how is it that a generation ago parents seemed completely reckless with the movies they exposed us to? Does this predate the Motion Picture Academy ratings system?? I used to think this age-inappropriate oversight just happened in MY house — but the more I talk about it the more I find others with similar stories.



While no one really complains about seeing a movie that was too “sophisticated” for them, there are a number of folks who were scarred for life by premature exposure to the horror genre.



Let’s take The Exorcist for example. A weird coincidence for me is that both my boyfriend and I saw this seminal film at far too young an age. He was 10 and I was 11 at the time; we both felt forever changed by the event. He had begged his father to let him see it and they watched together in the basement while devouring bowls of ice cream. He was frightened out of his mind, but would not let on to his dad just how terrified he felt. Meanwhile, I was brought to the theater by my older brother (I’m sure my parents HAD to know where he was taking me) after I too begged to be let into the club. In both cases the elder relative had already imparted gruesomely vivid details — impressing and intriguing us thoroughly. Then again, thanks to my older brother I had been raised on Hitchcock and Romero so I considered myself a veteran of the horror genre by age ten.



But The Exorcist was different. This movie made The Birds look sweet and the Romero zombies seem laughable.



I, for one, was never so frightened in my life. I couldn’t figure out how to both shield my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears so that I could not hear Mercedes McCambridge’s (Linda Blair’s voice-over) demonic otherworldly rants. My brother cautioned me that people had actually fainted and vomited during this film and I believed it … I was about to toss my cookies too.



It’s understandable that I would have steered clear of this film until I was much older. This past weekend, being undeniably “much older” than the tender “11″ of the Nixon administration, we sat down to watch again — this time as parents.

I wanted to see what would happen when the character I identified with became not the hapless possessed 12-year-old, but the harried actress mom who, for the life of her, cannot figure out what the hell has happened to her daughter.



The filmmakers take a very modern approach, for the early 70s, to have Regan undergo a battery of brain scans and psychological evaluations. You even hear one doctor mention “Ritalin” and Ellen Burstyn say, “Just take your medication dear … it’ll be okay.” But the sheer terror and stress-weary expressions displayed by Burstyn easily evoke your subjective parental reactions.



I was absolutely relieved to find that though I could relate to the mother’s terror — there was no way I could adequately buy into the situation. And that made the movie surprisingly easier to watch. Whereas, my 11-year-old self DID buy into the idea that maybe innocent little girls in nice houses could become hosts to demonic forces. I was relieved to find it not quite as terrifying as I did when I was a pre-teen; and that makes sense.



For years this film unnerved me when all I needed was to be exorcised of its grip on me. Was I too young to see it? Absolutely; but being totally petrified at night came with the territory of being a horror fan. You took the discomfort the same way you accepted sunburn from “laying out all day.” Maybe we were just tougher in the 70s.



On an alternate cinematic note — If you really want to challenge your parental-selves, try watching the cult classic Eraserhead again (assuming you devoured it during your college years). You’ll realize through your parental prism that this is David Lynch’s bizarre take on parenthood. The difference is that their baby is sort of a preemie crossed with a reptile. “They’re not even sure it IS a baby,” cries the postpartum mom. She soon packs her bag and leaves the creature behind; “I’m losing my mind! All I need is a decent night’s sleep,” she cries. What new parent could not relate to that?



Then in a scene that truly captures the mystery of new-parenthood, the father, Henry, takes the creature’s temperature trying to figure out why it has not stopped crying. The mercury thermometer shows a normal 98.6 — but when he turns to look back at the baby it is suddenly covered with festering sores and has labored phlegmy breathing. This is a stroke of genius, because the baby seems to sense what the new father expects of him. “Ah, he thinks I’m sick; so I’ll just become sick.” We frequently project our fears onto our kids when it’s all so new and unknown (fortunately they don’t always comply so readily). Another scene has Henry attempting to leave the apartment for a moment. Every time he goes near the door the baby’s crying increases; when he returns to its side, it subsides. If that doesn’t feel like new parenthood, I don’t know what does. You put the baby down; he cries. Pick him up again, he’s fine. Therefore, YOU cannot do anything else.



I imagine that Lynch chose the title Eraserhead because that’s what his child resembled when she was born. For those who had a prolonged pushing stage, frequently the baby’s head becomes thin and elongated like, well, an eraser. This surprising deformity goes away after a day or so, but for a new dad like Lynch, I can only imagine him whispering to himself, “Eraserhead … that’s what we’ll call her.”



Eraserhead you can consider a foreboding parental fantasy film; perfect to watch when your baby is finally sleeping through the night but you’re still up at midnight. Keep in mind that the mutant baby creature is in fact symbolic for some part of the main character’s psyche — so don’t be alarmed when he does some less-than responsible parenting. The Exorcist thankfully came with a Netflix warning stating “Not For Youngsters,” so hopefully no one will be screening this film during a teen slumber party. 



For lovers of the horror genre it is difficult to be patient and wait for your children to be old enough to share scary movies with you. I’ve discussed this with many parents (mostly dads) who are just itching to sit down and introduce their nine-year-old to Freddy Krueger (er…which is exactly what I did). But for cryin’ out loud — just hold your horses and think of the lifelong damage you could do by sharing Halloween with an impressionable pre-teen. They have all the time in the world for such folly — otherwise they might grow into the kind of obsessed adults who attend horror movie conventions (what? not me!).

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