Lionel Shriver’s novel, We Need to Talk About Kevin, is now a movie. I remember when the
book came out. I was in London, where they actually advertise books that are intelligent and
well written, so there were posters all over the Tube. My sister bought it. I was curious, but my bedside table was already full.
Years passed, and then I found out I was pregnant. It was a surprise, and not automatically
joyous news, so I took a rather sardonic view of the whole experience. My reading tends to
reflect my mental state, so I borrowed my sister’s copy of Kevin. (I also read Dante’s Divine
Comedy while I was pregnant, so I do know exactly which level of hell unbaptized children
end up in, Reverend Matt.) And I really enjoyed the book. I understood the mother’s conflicted emotions, I shared her hopes and fears, and I was completely caught up in the drama. Despite the obvious parallel to my own life (the having-a-child bit), I felt removed enough from the story that I didn’t relate to the more horrific aspects of it. I recommended the book to anyone who would ask — except other pregnant women. Not everyone is as insensitive as I am, after all.
But now that it’s a movie, I’m avoiding it at all costs. My husband suggested we see it, and my immediate reaction was, “No, no way.” He looked at me a little strangely, then went on with whatever he was doing. I, however, have been analyzing my reaction ever since.
How come I am horrified by the prospect of watching this movie? I have three theories:
anticipation, association, and just plain old creepiness.
Anticipation because I know how it’s all going to play out, and I don’t want to be around for that. It reminds me of the second time I saw The Shining. The first time I saw it, I didn’t find it the least bit scary. The second time I saw it, I knew what was going to happen and I couldn’t watch, didn’t want to see the creepy twin girls, or the torrents of blood, or Shelley Duvall. That may be what’s happening here. I know that that precious mother-and-child relationship will be doomed from the start, and that terrible things will happen to people who don’t deserve it, and that the mother will be helpless in the face of it all. And I don’t want to think about any of those things.
Association because I first encountered this story when I was newly pregnant with Cookie, and I’m afraid that reliving the horrors of it will colour my view of Cookie, or of my pregnancy, or of me. And because now I’m firmly entrenched in parenthood and can relate to the character’s deep love of her little girl and her paralyzing fear for her daughter’s safety.
Plain old creepiness because it’s a horror movie, at heart, and I’m so over horror movies. I’m
tired of being pointlessly scared. The trailer is certainly creepy enough.
I think it’s all three. But I’m curious about how other parents feel about watching movies or
reading books with tragic parent-and-child relationships in them. I’m now terrified of a lot of
books that before I wouldn’t have thought twice about picking up. One Halloween I watched
Dawn of the Dead with a bunch of friends. One of them was pregnant and tired, so she went to bed before we even started the movie. When the zombie-baby birth scene came, her husband said, “Man, I’m glad she wasn’t here to see that.” This from a couple that was referring to their unborn child as “Spawn of Satan,” so I shot him an “as if” look. I’m a little more sympathetic now. I think I could still handle that scene, but there’s a lot I can’t handle. One of my fellow mamas can’t watch Intervention because they always show pictures of the crack addicts as adorable babies, and it reminds her how even her sweet child could end up down the wrong path. I think a lot about how Hitler was probably an adorable toddler, more than I should.
We Need to Talk About Kevin is a complex, intense book richly deserving of the accolades it
has garnered. It seems the movie is following in its footsteps. But I will not be watching it.
-East End Mama
