The two members of the Hoover family most on my mind are the father, Richard, and his youngest child. Olive is an innocent, a beauty contest enthusiast unconcerned with sexism and gender politics who longs to compete at a higher level. When this runner-up in a local competition finds out she gets to attend the regional competition, her palpable screams reminded me of the way my daughters respond to talk of a beach visit or pet purchase.

Richard's distinguishing feature is his relentless attempt to enforce optimism on his family by way of a nine-point self-help system that sports jewels like "Good Enough is Never Good Enough," "No Hocus Pocus. Just Focus" and "Reject Rejection." His no-excuses posture towards life glosses over the unfortunate--often painful vicissitudes of existence--earning the viewer's exasperation as quickly as it has earned his son's and brother-in-law's established disdain.

For a short time after turning his idealism towards his daughter--now busily preparing for the beauty pageant--Richard's ingredients for success look like they might be useful. He changes his business plans in order to drive the family to the competition, boosting Olive's confidence even further when he assures her that she can win the contest is she wants it badly enough. These words mix with the visible support of her dysfunctional family to carry her through the competition with a wide-eyed, naïve belief in her ability to wow the crowd.

The path to the film's sentimental conclusion (and Olive's memorable performance) is, however, fraught with relational hiccups. Most of these Richard generates single-handedly, loudly pushing his idealism on his misanthropic son, suicidal brother-in-law, and ailing father without concern for their receptivity.

Ironically, the point at which we're most meant to despise Richard comes when, en route to the contest in California, Richard actually looks beneath the shiny surfaces in which he specializes and articulates an observation about American society. A dinner stop becomes an opportunity for him to dissertate on the perils of fatty food for would-be beauty contestants. When Olive orders waffles and ice cream for her meal, Richard follows up with a question about the kind of body type that typically wins the pageants Olive so enjoys watching on television. Olive's memory kicks into gear, and she decides to forego the creamy dessert before her.

Richard's outraged family members quickly, successfully encourage the slightly depressed Olive to reclaim her love of sweets by asking if they can share the contents of her bowl. Richard ends up looking like an insensitive fool, having dared to point out to his slightly plump daughter one of the variables on which success hinges in the beauty business. His lesson on the practical consequences of unhealthy eating have no opportunity to take root, as his wife's comforting, socially enlightened words erase his ill-timed tutorial: "It's okay to be skinny, and it's okay to be fat--whatever you want."

Is it? Is it okay to eat a profusion of unhealthy foods and bear the physiological and morphological consequences?

The progressive, disability-sensitive theorist and gender-minded literary scholar in me that recognizes the harm wrought by our society's pernicious aesthetic standards responds to such a question with incredulity and not a little outrage: "Of course it is! The notion that only a few female phenotypes should be considered "beautiful" encourages men to analyze instead of celebrate, replacing romantic focus and devotion with a comparative shopping mentality. The grief it brings females is still worse--encouraging them from a young age to find fault with every aspect of their appearance, to doubt their social value unless it is constantly reaffirmed by the admiring glance, and to spend less time developing invisible and more meaningful faculties. Besides, diet and exercise regimens must contend with bone structure, psychology, physical environment, available funds, and limited free time."

And yet . . . there is the little fact that perceived beauty is an inevitable player in our world--in professional success, personal relationships, and even politics and, too often, academics. Is it wrong to talk about this particular reality with kids? Earlier, Olive's mother had refused to refrain from telling her daughter that her own brother was now living with them because he recently attempted suicide--she is proud of her pro-truth policy--but when it comes to this particular issue she wants to dodge it. Presumably, Sheryl fears the consequences of enlightenment on an unformed mind.

But when is the appropriate time for broaching such sensitive topics? Tracey and I have already used the convenient television series Little House on the Prairie as a catalyst for conversations about death, murder, divorce, alcoholism, drug addiction, and infidelity (though we've not discussed the details of coitus yet). The girls do know not to let adults touch them in certain places (they learned this in preschool), and they also know a bit about what "pretty," "cute," and "beautiful" mean. At what point do we put two and two together for them, and talk, not only about sex, but sexual attraction? What happens if we wait too long, and their friends in elementary school present the topic in a way that produces extreme discomfort from the get-go, when we could have introduced the topic in a comparatively natural--even fun--way?

What to do, what to do . . .

Thoughts?