Above: Ellar Coltrane in the final scene of "Boyhood"
There is a moment, early in
Richard Linklater’s coming of age movie “Boyhood,” when two kids sit in a diner
with their father. They listen; he
lectures, excitedly. “Who are you voting
for in the next election?” He answers
his own question: “Anybody but Bush!”
As you can probably gather, that scene takes place in the
early 2000s. But “Boyhood” stretches far
beyond that—before, we see a mother reading her children “Harry Potter and the
Chamber of Secrets” (when that phenomenon was still fresh); later, someone jokes
about the omniscience of the NSA, reminding us that the narrative has
progressed to the present.
Mason (Ellar Coltrane), the film’s young hero, anchors
this journey (which takes place in Texas).
Through all those pop and political allusions, we see him grow from a
young boy to a college-bound photographer, which is possible only because Mr.
Linklater shot the film over twelve years (starting in 2002), allowing Mr.
Coltrane and rest of the cast to age naturally.
And it’s an intriguing experiment—the breadth and intimacy of the
project makes it a multi-pronged time capsule, reminding you of where (and who)
you were during the various points of Mason’s life.
But
beyond that, I don’t think “Boyhood” works.
Yes, it’s a worthwhile film (and certainly a conversation-starting one
at that). Yet in its simple, generic
makeup, the movie feels odd and formless—a bland, drifting ode to a character
who never solidifies. That’s partly
because in the film, Mason is still forming his identity; he’s discovering who
he is just as we are. But it’s also
because Mr. Linklater never fully develops Mason’s personality—he just pummels
him with emotional trauma and boredom, all of it rendered in a dully unobtrusive
fashion.
There
is, of course, a story. When the film
begins, Mason is about six, and still overshadowed by the rift between his
parents (played by Ethan Hawke and Patricia Arquette). But time passes and soon, Mason’s father reappears;
so too do stepfathers. Both of them turn
out to be violent and alcoholic fear mongers, but though Mr. Linklater dwells
(queasily) on the threat of child abuse, he’s not really interested in
cinematic theatrics; he prefers to just check in with Mason, whether he’s at sitting
at his desk in school or chatting and drinking into the night with his friends.
In
other words, “Boyhood” is not a particularly distinctive (or imaginative)
portrayal of adolescence. Yet as
underdeveloped as Mason is, he does feel familiar; Mr. Coltrane’s deep voice
and (later acquired) thin facial hair reminded me of some of my own boyhood
friends.
But
relatable doesn’t equal worthwhile. Mr.
Hawke’s poignant, volatile energy not withstanding (he makes Mason’s father seem
unstable but tragically eager to please), “Boyhood” dies under the weight of
its own bleakness. Remember those
abusive fathers I mentioned? Whenever
they’re onscreen, they dominate the film.
And the promise of violence that hangs on their every move infests the
movie with excruciating, utterly real terror.
For
me, this was simply too much. I don’t
ask that every movie be an optimistic fanfare, but I at least expect to find
some beauty. Otherwise, why bother
buying a ticket? Why bother taking the
time to invest a few hours of your life in a fictional world? To be challenged, of course, but also to be
rewarded. After all, what would Terrence
Malick’s “The Tree of Life” (another movie about an abused Texan boy) be
without its soulful shots of dark seas and skyscrapers? Just another colorless chronicle of pain.
In the
end, that’s what “Boyhood” is. Yes, it’s
impossible not to be drawn to Mr. Coltrane’s stoic sincerity, but he never
seems passionate. Mason, we are told,
cares deeply about his photographic ambitions.
Yet never seems truly excited by them; the prospect of picking up a
camera never visibly thrills or moves him, and he doesn’t seem to want to
express anything in particular through his pictures.
Hence
the moment towards the end of the film when we find Mason standing by a gas
station, photographing a fire hydrant and then a traffic light. As he looks at each one, we begin to see how
they might make elegant shots—their bright colors make them shine in the
desert. But they don’t have the vibrant life
of real world objects; they look like they’ve been dryly captured for a dull
art film.
Life,
good or bad, means more.
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