"What messages do teen films send about sex?"

This was the question that compelled me to teach a course on teen films for the summer session at Carleton University.  I wanted to examine the value of the genre in general, but what interested me more was exploring just how these types of films function in relation to society and to their target demographic.  My initial research, and the class lectures and discussions themselves, revealed a number of intriguing observations about the way these films portray, cater to, and 'protect' teenagers.

This notion of "protecting" young people stems from the assumed relationship between the media and actual violent acts committed by young viewers.  In classes examining Gus Van Sant's Elephant (2003) and Tim Blake Nelson's O (2001) we questioned whether the media is complicit in causing events such as the Columbine high school shootings, or if the media simply becomes a scapegoat in the accompanying moral panic (as I like to call it, "Won't somebody please think of the children?!" syndrome.)

As the course progressed, we began to ask the same sorts of questions about sexuality.  The influence of violent images seems to be a social concern most often associated with boys (video games, violent music, horror movies), but sexuality is viewed an equal opportunity offender.  It is thought that both young men and women can be influenced by the sexual acts played out in the narratives they consume.

There is, however, very little consistency in messaging when it comes to sexuality in teen films.   Researchers seem to declare films a danger to society just as often as they argue that content doesn't affect causality.  This discrepancy is, of course, part of the exacting power and privilege adults hold over teenagers.  Depictions of drug abusing, violence prone, promiscuous teens can be used by adults to prop up any cause they want: "This is the way kids truly are nowadays," "Teens will end up like these characters if they watch this film," and even, on the rare occasion, "Teens are savvy enough to know this is fiction."  None of the films we examined were actually made by teens, for teens; therefore, every film included an inherent adult bias.

Which is why it can be revealing to approach teen films from an angle other than those dictated by fear or concern.  Those approaches, which tend to demonize teen cinema, close to the door a multitude of alternate readings, but when we start to ask different questions about teens films, interesting discoveries can reveal themselves.

For example, a popular topic of discussion amongst academics studying the American Pie series is the suggestion that films function largely as informal sexual education.  It sounds preposterous initially, but when you consider that the sexual escapades the protagonists find themselves in are largely a result of the fact that they don't know any better (they've never been taught how to masturbate, or what premature ejaculation is, or how to survive in a long distance relationship, or how to perform in a manner that pleases both sexual partners) the argument becomes fairly convincing.  If, as reception studies suggest, audiences identify with the characters on screen, perhaps American Pie and its sequels serve an educational function by teaching teenage audiences the dos and don'ts of sexual behaviour.  The narrative can thus serve as a cautionary tale, a cinematic proxy, so that teens don't end up using super glue instead of lube in real life, where the consequences are likely far more dire than a humiliating experience in the ER with your father.

At the same time, the depiction of teen sexuality in American Pie is problematic.  There's an inherent focus on male sexuality, wherein the women are categorized into stereotypical boxes based on their sexual availability (the foreign exchange student is sexually liberated, the band geek is a secret slut, etc.). The concept of female sexuality is devalued to princess-style fantasies of a "perfect moment" and the manifestation of the virgin-whore dichotomy that Hollywood loves to reiterate.

A more nuanced approach can be found in Ginger Snaps, a Canadian horror film that equates menstruation with lycanthropy (both are referred to as "the change"). While the metaphor is hardly difficult to spot, the depiction of the relationship between the two sisters - who would rather die than be separated, and are subsequently forced to do battle when the elder gets bitten by a werewolf - is emotional and empathetic.  As Ginger begins to change, her sexuality emerges in situations humorous and horrific, veering between discussions about menses at the dinner table with an out-of-touch mother to the murder of local boys.

The same issue arises in the film, Teeth, when a girl discovers that she is a literal embodiment of vagina dentata.  Perhaps it is a reflection of the genre (horror and sci-fi films seem to have an easier time seizing the opportunity for social commentary than most comedy), but the treatment of the changes young women undergo, and how this affects their sexuality, is more interesting and varied in these horror films than the pretty-pony playhouse version embodied in more traditional teen films.

These sorts of discussions, however, can only take place if one believes teenagers should even be allowed see these kinds of films in the first place.  Perhaps it's better to keep our young people locked up in their plastic bubble until they can emerge as adults.

Of course, then we run the risk we'll have a nation of pie fuckers to contend with . . .

Related:

Read all of Joe's teen films blog posts.

Frederick Hidell considered the teen-sex canon film Porky's.

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