Going to the Movies Family-Style

This is the second in an occasional series of columns written by a thirtysomething father trying to make sense of raising two young children in Los Angeles.

Dear Skeeter,

Christmas movies are upon us. I took 7-year-old Eric and 4-year-old Ariel to “The Little Mermaid,” which they viewed with special intensity, because the prince in the story is named Eric, and the mermaid, believe it or not, is called Ariel. In the scene where all the animals try to make the prince kiss the mermaid, Ariel leaned over and tried to plant one on Eric, but he fought her off.

As for grown-up movies, I haven’t seen the summer ones yet. I couldn’t get to a movie that wasn’t aimed at 7-year-olds. Baby-sitter problems. And I’ve got to admit I’m jaded enough that it’s been more fun watching Eric watch a movie than watching one myself. This was Eric’s first big summer for movies, and his body tenses, his eyes go wide as his little brain dives into the screen.

He saw “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” and the new “Ghostbusters” and “Peter Pan” and “Milo and Otis” and “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids,” and he liked them all, but not for the reasons you might expect. With all those millions in special effects, his favorite moment in “Ghostbusters” comes right at the beginning, when Dan Aykroyd turns on the “Ghostbusters” theme music at the kids party and they all yell “Who you gonna call--HE MAN.” He was yelling that for days. His favorite bit in “Indiana Jones” is when Indiana is smashing up the floor in the Venetian library and the doddering librarian thinks his date stamp is making the crashing sounds. Old-time vaudeville humor, about as low-tech as you can get.

Maybe he’s too young for these films, though I don’t think so. Ariel is another question. You are no doubt wondering why we took a 4-year-old to “Indiana Jones”? We could blame the baby-sitter deficit, but the truth is if Eric saw it and she didn’t there’d be hell to pay. Eric couldn’t have talked about it later without being accused of rubbing it in, which wouldn’t have been fair to him or to us parents caught in the middle.

And, to give Ariel credit, it wouldn’t have been fair to keep her home. She’s always pushing to do what he does (we had a big set-to this morning because she wanted to carry the orange juice pitcher to the table just like Eric), and she’s used to being part of things that are a bit beyond her ken. It’s sharpened her imagination, I think. I hear her riffing away, creating her own explanations of the mysteries she’s witnessing.

So while we rigorously protected Eric from such corrupting influences when he was 4, with Ariel we’ve taken the path of least resistance, and she sat through “Indiana Jones” very well. The Nazi love interest made her perk up. What she wanted more than anything was a wedding at the end.

The violence didn’t faze her; I think it was too abstract. The only place she showed real concern was when Jones was wading through the catacombs crawling with rats. She was worried about the rats. I had to promise her they wouldn’t get hurt, and amid all the water and flames I felt like a hypocrite. She’d put her finger on the one real piece of violence in the film.

Ariel thought “Wizard of Oz” was much scarier. She was in tears even before the tornado, by the time the nasty spinster pedals away with Toto. Eric’s favorite part of “Oz” was yet odder by my lights--it was when the Jimmy Cagney tough-guy munchkins of the lolly pop guild welcome Dorothy to Munchkin City by speaking out of the sides of their mouths. Ariel liked that part too, particularly when the munchkins gave Dorothy presents. All told, “Oz” was a much more vivid experience for them than “Indiana Jones,” or any of the others. Last summer, Variety crowed about the billion-dollar box office, and, speaking as a victim, I know what they meant. Even without a sitter, “Indiana Jones” at Mann’s Chinese Theater cost us damn near 40 bucks. For the four of us, tickets were $22; then there was $2 parking and $12 for a couple of Cokes and some small popcorns and a little junk food.

Don’t give us trouble about the junk food. We let the kids eat things at the movies we’d never let into the house. Movie-going is a sort of all-stops-out sensual experience as far as our family concerned, and gorging ourselves on cherry Coke and red vine licorice add taste and smell to big-screen sight and sound. For touch, we hang onto each other.

So watching a movie is like being at a luau--food and drink are passed back and forth, shared and negotiated for and shared some more. I monitor the drinking, though, because I don’t want to have to take them out to the bathroom. I lecture them about cause and effect but Eric can go three or four times in one film: he hates to miss anything, but not enough to give up his only crack at cherry Coke.

At “Indiana Jones,” after the first trip I decided he was old enough to go himself, and he shot out of there at a crucial moment in the film. I might just as well as gone with him: the movie blanked out as I wrote my own movie about what might befall my son in a men’s room on Hollywood Boulevard. But he came back safe and sound, and a new precedent was set. Now I show him in advance where the restrooms are and let Leni worry about Ariel. I’m a free man.

When we came out into the sunlight after the movie, I had my usual empty, sinful feeling. Seeing a movie in the daytime still feels decadent, and the moment we hit the street the kids are worrying about what’s going to happen next, as if the blast of sun has bleached the last 90 minutes from their minds. Movies are fun, but I can think of better ways to spend 36 bucks and our precious time together.

So the next weekend we went to the beach, and Eric picked up a string of seaweed and started lashing at the waves playing Indiana Jones. I realized he’s getting to an age where he’s looking for heroes, and right now there aren’t a lot out there. So far all the only ones Eric’s mentioned are Indiana Jones and Magic Johnson.

You’ll be happy to know when a movie’s over Leni slips the leftover candy into the drawer by her bed. Where it goes from there you’ll have to ask your daughter.

Ever your loving, son-in-law Jon.