Perhaps we can blame my high school history teacher for my descent into apostasy, as it was he who caused me to view my first R-rated movie.

It wasn’t forced or anything. We were covering English history in class, and he offered a Saturday morning movie– come in your jammies, enjoy some coffee and snacks, and watch Braveheart. (Relax, history buffs, Mr. B made sure to point out the historical inaccuracies.) For some reason, I really wanted to see it, and managed to paint it in a scholastic light so as to obtain parental permission.

Say what you will about Mel Gibson, and I’ll probably agree with you, but Braveheart is a kickass movie. It spoke to my sixteen-year-old heart in a big way. I’m not going to pretend like it’s the best movie I’ve ever seen, or even one of my favorites, but it was an earth-shattering revelation to me: it was rated R, and it was… well, it was of good report and praiseworthy.

How was that possible? My prophet had told me not to see R-rated films, and I did anyway, and you know? They weren’t that different than any other film. Some of them were good, some of them were bad, most of them were mediocre, but none of them made me a bad person just by the watching of them. Some of them were even uplifting and beautiful.

I developed a habit. I’d go to my best friend’s house every Friday, and we’d watch a (usually R-rated) film, and agree on a PG-13 to say that we’d watched. I saw my first R in the theatre (The Royal Tenenbaums) and had an awkward moment seeing a couple from my ward at the theatre.

I didn’t feel too guilty about watching R-rated movies, though I didn’t like hiding it from my parents. I never really felt any guilt about breaking rules that I thought were nonsensical or arbitrary. The next semester I took a film class, and the first movie we watched was The Matrix, which was infinitely more kickass than Braveheart. It was all over after that. I knew the prophet was wrong about R-rated movies, and eventually I’d allow myself to wonder what else he was wrong about.