When describing something like Boyhood, Richard Linklater’s attempt to capture the experience of
growing up in something resembling real-time, it’s easy to toss around
hyperbolic terms like “brilliant” and “tour de force” – and even easier to get
swept up in them. With something this ambitious and experimental, you walk into
the theater expecting your life to be altered, your mind opened to new,
profound insights into the human condition, whatever that means. To tell the
truth, though, Boyhood is nothing
like that. Just as Terrence Malick’s The
Tree of Life didn’t reveal the meaning of the universe, Boyhood doesn’t shed light on any mind-blowing
secrets about coming of age in contemporary America. It is, in fact, rather
ordinary.
The boy
in question, named Mason Jr. and played by neophyte actor Ellar Coltrane, is no
one special. He’s white and able-bodied, gradually evolving from a fresh-faced kid
into a gangly teenager with a pierced ear, possessing few exceptional qualities
except a penchant for photography and moody philosophizing. The 12 years of his
life covered by the film (compressed into a nearly three-hour running time,
which feels surprisingly like nothing at all) contain little that could be
categorized as action and follow only the ghost of a narrative structure, not
rising toward a climax so much as meandering around one. Even the most ostensibly
sensational events, such as Mason’s strained interactions with his two alcoholic
stepfathers, are conveyed through the dispassionate gaze of a documentarian. Although
it offers an intimate look at the everyday existence of its protagonist, the
movie never really allows us into his head; we merely observe, never
experience.
Deprived
of the visceral immediacy I had been anticipating, I couldn’t help but feel
somewhat let down at first. What I thought would be a joyful celebration of
youth instead turned out to be a rather depressing reminder of how boring
reality is, delivered from the perspective of someone I found neither relatable
nor particularly interesting (especially as an adolescent, Mason is a
quintessential Linklater character: wistful, talkative, laid-back and in love
with his own thoughts). Once my initial reaction faded, however, it dawned on
me that I was supposed to feel that
way. Boyhood isn’t about catharsis;
it’s about numbing, the sinking realization that this is it, this is life, and
you have no idea what to do with it.
If that
sounds like a downer, it is. Yet it’s also strangely captivating, unfurling
with a dreamy, leisurely serenity that mirrors its Texas backdrop, not bowling
you over with emotions so much as letting them sink into you and creep beneath
your skin. Bereft of shocking revelations, turning points and anything else
resembling a major plot twist, Boyhood
revels in details – gestures, pop culture references, objects, places rendered
with such evocative specificity it feels like you’re wandering through a
memory. For example, when Mason accompanies his mother (Patricia Arquette in a
performance revelatory for its quiet poignancy) to her college psychology
class, he sees the professor put his hand on her back, and we instantly
understand the implications of this tiny, seemingly casual act. Linklater is
predominantly known for his dialogue, and to be sure, there’s plenty of it
here, but he also puts on a clinic in how to impart information by showing
rather than telling.
In the
hands of almost any other director, Boyhood
might have ended up as little more than a curiosity, its unconventional filming
style elevating a fairly conventional teen movie plot (alcohol-soaked parties?
Check. Short-lived romances? Check. Heart-to-heart conversations about the
future? You’re damn right check). But with his naturalistic direction and subtle
script, Linklater infuses the proceedings with a sense of sincerity that most
coming-of-age films lack, eschewing shallow nostalgia and familiar clichés in
favor of something messier and more honest. Furthermore, anyone who dismisses
the premise as a mere gimmick would be mistaken. On the contrary, it’s the
entire point. Life, according to Boyhood,
is basically meaningless; there’s no grand master plan, no higher purpose to
the series of arbitrary benchmarks we pass on our way to death (to paraphrase
Arquette in the movie’s most haunting scene). What make it all worthwhile are
the little things, the fragments of time between benchmarks when you forget
about the inevitability of mortality and the impermanence of things. Life is
about the clear sunset that greets you after a long hike, the song you hear on
the car radio, the near-infinite number of seconds that tick by as you debate
whether to kiss the girl sitting next to you. It’s about the moments that are
there and then, before you know it, gone.
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