Director: Richard Linklater
Writer: Richard Linklater
Stars: Ellar Coltrane, Patricia Arquette, Ethan Hawke
Right before my screening of Boyhood at the Sydney Film Festival,
Ellar Coltrane and Cathleen Sutherland walked out on stage to briefly introduce
the film to the packed State Theatre audience. Sutherland is one of the film’s
four producers. The 19-year-old Coltrane is the heart and soul of Boyhood. Coltrane spoke into the
microphone and he sounded 19. I didn’t have the greatest seat, but he looked
about 19, too. Coltrane and Sutherland disappeared behind the curtain and the
film started rolling. Within the film’s first minute, we see a seven-year-old
boy sprawled out on his front lawn, gazing at the sky (essentially what you see
on the film’s poster). When my mind registered that the boy was Ellar
Coltrane—the same 19-year-old I saw in the flesh just moments before—a lump
formed in my throat and I realised I was in for something special. The process
of human ageing had already been laid bare before my eyes and we were just
getting started.
Boyhood
is a film that will be talked about for decades. Beginning in 2002, director Richard Linklater filmed the same cast of actors (and, by extension, characters) over a period of
12 years. Logistically and emotionally, that’s a gargantuan undertaking. We meet
Mason (Coltrane) as a seven-year-old living with his single mother, Olivia
(Patricia Arquette), and older sister, Samantha (Lorelei Linklater). Mason maintains an amicable though stilted
relationship with his father, Mason Sr. (Ethan Hawke). We follow Mason from
childhood through to adolescence, concluding with his initiation into young
adulthood. The film succeeds with its organic narrative. We see a young Mason practising
his golf swing with his stepfather—not because golf is an integral component of
the film (it isn’t), but because kids often practise things. On that particular
day, it happened to be golf. There are no distracting announcements that one
year has ended and another one has begun. No gimmicky title cards to be found
here, folks. Boyhood was shot
entirely on 35mm film to prevent noticeable discrepancies in the quality of
digital footage, and to maintain tonal integrity with cinematography. But the film
needs to mark time somehow, right? Looking
at Mason’s hairstyle is a good place to start. Inevitably, you do notice the physical
maturation of all cast members, but the camera does not linger on their faces with
close scrutiny to reveal the ravages of age. Just as we do not look in the
mirror each day and notice the formation of frown lines, the ageing process in
the film manages to be seamless.
Time is also
marked with popular music. With a diverse soundtrack ranging from Coldplay’s Yellow, to Soulja Boy’s Crank That, to Gotye’s Somebody That I Used to Know, Linklater
understands the emotional power of song—the way a single chord change can
conjure up memories that would otherwise remain repressed. We also see objects
that exist today as anachronisms, such as an iMac G3 and a 20Q. I was initially
disappointed when the camera zoomed in on these items, as I wasn’t expecting
such a degree of self-awareness. However, as more of these technological artefacts
came into view, my disappointment turned into sweet nostalgia.
With a title
of Boyhood, I can understand why some
viewers may expect the film to explore its themes through a narrow scope. As the
film progresses, however, you realise it is not
about growing up as a male. It is about having to grow up, period. Linklater
revisits his obsession with time and impermanence that underpinned the
incredibly moving Before trilogy. There
is a quote from Before Midnight: “Like
sunlight...sunset, we appear...we disappear. We are so important to some, but
we are just passing through.” While Boyhood
does not place as much emphasis on our inevitable demise, it does remind us
that time is indifferent to our struggles—that we belong to something bigger
than us.
I was intrigued by
the audience’s reaction to individual scenes during my screening. On several
occasions, people were laughing during scenes which I considered moving. This is
a sign of the film’s rich emotional depth. It is important to remember that neither
reaction is correct, as the film allows
engagement on a deeply personal level. To tell someone they can’t laugh is to
invalidate their individual history.
Boyhood
is imbued with the rare quality of simultaneously
being like every film you’ve ever seen, and being like no film you’ve seen
before. The familiarity arises from the simple scenes of domesticity among
Mason’s family. We are also confronted with standard coming-of-age fare, such
as experimentation with drugs and alcohol and forays into sexual intimacy. Boyhood separates itself from the pack of
generic American suburban dramas by not asking for our empathy, but demanding
it. I often lament how the blockbusters and epics of Hollywood have been
monopolised by the sci-fi, fantasy, and action genres. Regular readers of this
blog would know I adore the drama genre, but I know a large proportion of the
film-going public does not. If more dramas had the emotional gravitas of Boyhood, I think the genre would be back
in vogue. Of course, the film partly achieves its “epic” quality through its
165-minute runtime. While others have complained that this is too long, I was
never bored and wouldn’t have cared if it went on longer.
When the film was
over and I walked out of the cinema, I felt like hugging everyone I know. I
wanted to call up a friend I hadn’t seen in months and ask to catch up over
coffee. I wanted to approach a random pretty girl on the street and ask her out
on a date because we will both be dead someday and that one act of courage
could be the start of something special. I just felt so alive, goddamnit!
In the final scene of
Boyhood, a character has an epiphany
that people do not seize moments. It’s the other way around. The moments seize
us. It reminded me of how difficult it is to define the present. If I say, “This
is the present,” the sentence is immediately relegated to the past once I stop
talking. The last time a film or television show made me so acutely conscious
of my mortality is when I watched the finale of Six Feet Under and Nate Fisher uttered a sentence that has haunted
me every day since: “You can’t take a picture of this. It’s already gone."
I just want everyone to see this film. It’s the type of film that can change a life. As someone who saw it at the age of 21, I’m fairly certain it will change mine. Hopefully, you will not remark—like a despondent Olivia realising her life consists of a series of milestones—“I just thought there would be more.”
5/5 stars.
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