As I watched Richard Linklater’s coming-of-age emotional pastiche Boyhood, I was reminded of one of Roger Ebert’s quotes: It’s not what a movie is about, it’s how it is about it.
Boyhood is, in many regards, not exactly about much. It doesn’t preach or judge or exhort any great truths about the meaning of life. It doesn’t indulge in gaudy sentimentalism, nor does it rely on it or excuse it. It simply observes, like a voyeur peeking into the life of a family in Austin, Texas as each character deals with growing up and growing old. It unfolds like a flower, both wondrous and perplexing, delicate but resilient.
And how this movie tackles subjects such as love, loss, and the pains of change makes all the difference.
Much has been made about Linklater’s audacious production model -- follow a group of actors from the early 2000s, check in with them intermittently every few years, then compile nearly twelve years of real-time footage into a story of family life as seen through one particular boy’s eyes.
Perhaps what Boyhood does best is present a sense of emotional scale by concentrating such a breadth of time into one film. Often times, stories can overwhelm an audience with a flood of emotional demands -- “See them laughing, feel happy; see them arguing, feel sad; see them lonely, feel sympathy.” In the course of a conventional 2-hour film, these emotions can be difficult to texturize or differentiate. Boyhood’s ability to introduce a wide range of emotional textures is directly attributable to its unique filming method. But it would be easy to confuse the film’s technical audacity with its narrative power. The film is a vivid collection of memories, a cinematic collage of moments both poignant and heartbreaking that unfolds like an ultra-slow timelapse video recording the same subjects for years. We witness each character develop and grow; but we also see the actors themselves age and mature on screen -- a feat that begins breaking down the illusion of moviemaking and taking on a truthfulness more akin to a documentary. There are moments in this film that would have been the first to be cut in any other; but these are also the scenes that capture the magic of family life. It makes the ordinary feel extraordinary, the unremarkable enlightening. Boyhood doesn’t simply tell a story; it, in its creation and presentation, represents the story.
Despite its audacious form, I can’t help but place the strength of this movie in its content. Contrary to the majority of its peers, Boyhood is confident in -- and indeed, more reliant upon -- the emotional power of its narrative as opposed to its technical prowess. It is this confidence in the human story at its core that allows it to essentially flow from scene to scene without any real semblance of a plot. Upon finishing my first viewing, I was instantly reminded of David Fincher’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Despite Button’s heavy reliance on technological wizardry, the film’s DNA is undoubtedly an emotional cousin of Boyhood. They both deal with a human life -- its first joys, first heartbreaks, first accomplishments, first failures -- and focus upon the unspectacular, often mundane, moments in life. The biggest complaint I’ve heard levied against Button is, “Nothing happens in the movie.” It’s a fair assessment in terms of general plot points; and already, it’s a complaint I’ve heard said about Boyhood. But audiences seeking out the big plot twists or villainous machinations tend to miss the quiet moments of realization, the fleeting glimmer of first crushes, or the fragile respite of a heartbreak. These are pivotal moments that, taken cumulatively, define a life; and they are rarely ever announced out loud in the real world. Why can’t they be equally as unassuming in movies?
At one point in the movie, Mason‘s mother, Olivia, laments the disappoints and failures in her life. Exasperated, she admits to her son, “I just thought there’d be more to this.” It’s a revealing line for Olivia’s character -- who that has remained as responsible, dedicated, and nurturing as she could through all the years -- but it’s an even bigger revelation for the point of the movie. The great irony behind those words is despite Olivia expecting more from life, this mesmerizing depiction of her life’s story, and that of her entire family’s, has illuminated the reasons why we live ours.
Boyhood is, in many regards, not exactly about much. It doesn’t preach or judge or exhort any great truths about the meaning of life. It doesn’t indulge in gaudy sentimentalism, nor does it rely on it or excuse it. It simply observes, like a voyeur peeking into the life of a family in Austin, Texas as each character deals with growing up and growing old. It unfolds like a flower, both wondrous and perplexing, delicate but resilient.
And how this movie tackles subjects such as love, loss, and the pains of change makes all the difference.
Much has been made about Linklater’s audacious production model -- follow a group of actors from the early 2000s, check in with them intermittently every few years, then compile nearly twelve years of real-time footage into a story of family life as seen through one particular boy’s eyes.
Perhaps what Boyhood does best is present a sense of emotional scale by concentrating such a breadth of time into one film. Often times, stories can overwhelm an audience with a flood of emotional demands -- “See them laughing, feel happy; see them arguing, feel sad; see them lonely, feel sympathy.” In the course of a conventional 2-hour film, these emotions can be difficult to texturize or differentiate. Boyhood’s ability to introduce a wide range of emotional textures is directly attributable to its unique filming method. But it would be easy to confuse the film’s technical audacity with its narrative power. The film is a vivid collection of memories, a cinematic collage of moments both poignant and heartbreaking that unfolds like an ultra-slow timelapse video recording the same subjects for years. We witness each character develop and grow; but we also see the actors themselves age and mature on screen -- a feat that begins breaking down the illusion of moviemaking and taking on a truthfulness more akin to a documentary. There are moments in this film that would have been the first to be cut in any other; but these are also the scenes that capture the magic of family life. It makes the ordinary feel extraordinary, the unremarkable enlightening. Boyhood doesn’t simply tell a story; it, in its creation and presentation, represents the story.
Despite its audacious form, I can’t help but place the strength of this movie in its content. Contrary to the majority of its peers, Boyhood is confident in -- and indeed, more reliant upon -- the emotional power of its narrative as opposed to its technical prowess. It is this confidence in the human story at its core that allows it to essentially flow from scene to scene without any real semblance of a plot. Upon finishing my first viewing, I was instantly reminded of David Fincher’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Despite Button’s heavy reliance on technological wizardry, the film’s DNA is undoubtedly an emotional cousin of Boyhood. They both deal with a human life -- its first joys, first heartbreaks, first accomplishments, first failures -- and focus upon the unspectacular, often mundane, moments in life. The biggest complaint I’ve heard levied against Button is, “Nothing happens in the movie.” It’s a fair assessment in terms of general plot points; and already, it’s a complaint I’ve heard said about Boyhood. But audiences seeking out the big plot twists or villainous machinations tend to miss the quiet moments of realization, the fleeting glimmer of first crushes, or the fragile respite of a heartbreak. These are pivotal moments that, taken cumulatively, define a life; and they are rarely ever announced out loud in the real world. Why can’t they be equally as unassuming in movies?
At one point in the movie, Mason‘s mother, Olivia, laments the disappoints and failures in her life. Exasperated, she admits to her son, “I just thought there’d be more to this.” It’s a revealing line for Olivia’s character -- who that has remained as responsible, dedicated, and nurturing as she could through all the years -- but it’s an even bigger revelation for the point of the movie. The great irony behind those words is despite Olivia expecting more from life, this mesmerizing depiction of her life’s story, and that of her entire family’s, has illuminated the reasons why we live ours.
