Caught between pop rock and a head case

If children should be seen and not heard, what about their parents?

Yesterday, I saw 127 HOURS along with the love of my life and a theater full of movie-lovers, all of whom, obviously, had survived Black Friday’s early a.m. “door-busting” specials and Altamont-style tramplings. Also in the crowd, a clan of living, witless Weebles who fell down into their seats, having determined that Danny Boyle‘s ripped-from-the-headlines-and-elbow-joints spectacle would be an appropriate entertainment not only for them but for their three-year-old as well. Thus, I saw the intermittently stunning movie with a soundtrack provided by A.R. “Top” Rahman and this poor, befuddled tyke who could only properly identify “water,” “baby” and “vewy big rock” as the visuals proffered them. The boy also extended multiple salutations to his kin and shouts-out to no one or no thing in particular. Loudly. At first, his constant aural barrage seemed an inexcusable distraction yet, gradually, his claptrap became metaphoric for James Franco‘s grueling on-screen trauma. Although while we in the audience felt equally trapped, to be fair, we didn’t have to drink our own pee. Just Mountain Dew.

Naturally, I was tempted to tell the child to clam up, but worried he might not comprehend my idiomatic request; the parents were more likely to understand. However, if they considered it wise to take their l’il one to an R-rated flick, I could not imagine them respecting a grievance voiced on behalf of myself and my fellow multiplexarians. Thus, in the time-honored tradition of cowards everywhere, I remained silent. Instead, I fantasized about running into these folks someday in Bluejohn Canyon and kicking them in the crevasse.

Now, what to do about Will and Jada Pinkett Smith? They work out. I think they both could take me. Yesterday, before my brush with grate-ness, I subjected myself to their daughter Willow’s Whip My Hair music video, an unsettling melange of inane lyricism, insipid imagery and imbecilic over-production. Andy Warhol promised fifteen minutes of fame; modern sound mixing guarantees anyone can have a career as a pop star provided she or he is attractive… enough. And, while I have come to accept this artistic compromise for those who have surpassed the legal drinking age and aren’t fit for modeling, I cannot condone the (s)exploitation of minors for the recording industry’s gain or parental profit. I’m not sure what Will and Jada were thinking. Perhaps they succumbed to their little girl’s protestations: “Jaden gets a tent-pole franchise and all I get is this lousy KARATE KID t-shirt?” Or, maybe the celebrity couple just wishes to nurture another revenue stream. (Times are tough, people.) Makes no difference, does it? Sure, Willow should be seen and heard… at home, like any other nine-year-old. But why expose the fresh princess to the world at such a young age? There is not a single note in Willow’s debut that suggests she’s a prodigy raised by Wolfgangs. At best, she’s a genetically-blessed charmer whose tune is even less substantial than her father’s oeuvre of catchy, yet shallow ditties.

Often, I question the entitlement of today’s youth. Kids seem spoiled and impatient, incapable of delayed gratification. Some say this is the result of new technologies that shorten attention spans and encourage multi-tasked wish fulfillment. However, I’d  argue the apparent change is a by-product of my generation’s lax parenting, a profound pendulum swing from previous generations’ adherence to Teutonic child-rearing. And while I am an adamant opponent of corporal punishment, I do believe that if you spare all parameters, you will spoil the child. But can you call CPS to report parents for being too permissive? At issue may also be my generation’s temptation to deify our progeny. Considering we lived through the Me Decade, it should come as no surprise we are ushering in the Mini-Me Decade. I confess, I am not above such behavior as I have granted space on this very website for my 7-year-old to post The Ava Report. Am I as guilty as Will Smith, just with less cash, access and box-office bankability?

It is natural to take pride in our children and, for some of us, showcasing their talents can seem irresistible, but shouldn’t we try? This is not the Borg we’re fighting, just our own egos. Kids can sing, but they needn’t do so on screen, on stage or in a movie theater. Let them develop their own voices, allow them to share their songs when they are ready and with whom they choose. If they want to make a bigger production out of it, let them pay their own way, not make strangers pay for your faith in them.

Children should be seen and heard, in context. Parents would serve their kids better simply by limiting their exposure.

What do you think?