The GMP’s resident film critic Eric Shapiro shares his thoughts on Richard Linklater’s groundbreaking movie.
It’s easy to take Richard Linklater for granted.
Reason being, he doesn’t work in the masculine vernacular which tends to be most commonly associated with great American filmmaking. His peers, among them Paul Thomas Anderson and David Fincher, tend to deliver more muscle, speed, aggression, and overt pyrotechnics. Linklater, in comparison, is a laid-back, gentle soul who seems to take a warm view of human nature. He works in subtle shades of emotion; the impact in his films tends to show up not as a lump in your throat, but as an immeasurable ache in your soul. You’re left not crying, but softly smiling. Come the end, he doesn’t pulverize you; he gives you a double high-five. And just the same, the man is a tremendous filmmaker. I’ll forget about him for long stretches of time, then he’ll release a new one and I’ll feel like an idiot for having done so.
Observe Boyhood, a film that I’m almost afraid to describe, as the premise itself hits so many acupressure points along one’s spirit body. It’s a landmark, a huge achievement, quite probably a masterpiece, and certainly a film that no serious film lover can be forgiven for missing. Over the course of 12 consecutive years, with the support of IFC, Linklater devoted a piece of time to chronicling the fictional coming of age of Mason (Ellar Coltrane), whose sister is Samantha (Lorelei Linklater) and whose divorced parents are Mason, Sr. (Ethan Hawke) and Mom (Patricia Arquette), a character who’s no less fascinating than the others for her lack of a name. Per its title, the saga focuses on young Mason, and we see the actor, along with the cast around him, age organically across years, epochs, and assorted technological and pop cultural changes. Linklater’s getting at something elemental in the human experience, something the appeal of which is tricky to verbalize, but is tied with necessity to the art of cinema itself, for no other medium could capture what Boyhood manages to.
The question of course arises as to whether or not we’re witnessing a stunt. Maybe, we note, the idea is more neat-o or clever than profound or holy. Such doubts are erased not only by the sweet, truthful radiance of the film itself, but by any accompanying contemplation of the process that went into its creation. For its nearly three-hour running time, we sit in observance of astonishing patience. Not just the creators’ patience, but the patience of nature. This meta awareness feeds back into our appreciation of the film, which by design is meant to simply (and not so simply) gaze upon nature. Not to make a point (which it eventually makes a point of saying it isn’t out to do), but to traverse territory where no point can possibly be made. Like seeing a child’s birth or beholding a crisp orange sunset, the point of watching Boyhood isn’t to arrive at a point, but to grasp for one and feel it receding and then press on anyway, which of course is rather what life is like.
I’ll admit to at times wanting more adrenaline, which is more a criticism of me than of the film itself. The conception of Boyhood and the willingness to actually pull it off speak to levels of madness which are worn quite casually upon the screen. Putting aside the masterstroke (not stunt; no — not a stunt) of the movie’s expanding timeframe, the movie itself is fluid, gentle, sunlit, warmhearted, and nonchalant, even when it touches upon darkness (in the form of alcoholic rage) or sexuality (in the form of Mason’s porn surfing and, later, girlfriends).
Thinking back to my own life between ages 6 and 18, I absolutely recall the banality of fluorescent-lit classrooms, time wasted hanging around being willfully stupid, and silly interpersonal dramas seeming silly at the time since I knew I was young and observed them at an ironic, often dazed-and-confused remove. Just the same, I also remember attending my first funerals, getting in car accidents, jumping off steep sexual cliffs, having an allergic reaction to ecstasy, and having a pre-college nervous breakdown. I’m not saying one’s boyhood need be a tour of darkness (nor would it be honest to say my own was, as I was certainly happy for most of it), though I’m wondering if embracing such a gentle palette is strictly truthful. However, the reason no such criticism can be fully formed vis a vis the film is because the film is an existential instrument designed to call up the kind of contemplation contained within this paragraph. If Boyhood stimulates within me a deep-rooted philosophical counterpoint about the “real” nature of reality that I know is no less valid than the film itself’s, then I’m pretty sure it’s fair game to call the damn thing a work of art.
Added poignancy stems from the fact that this work of art was initiated at a point in cinematic history where cinema was central to our culture and completed at a point when it’s been at least somewhat marginalized. Breathtakingly, though, the movie brings back the urgency. It’s the indie film you can’t afford to miss (can you remember the last one of those?). It’s an outburst of innovation, artistry, and love that reminds you of the time when the movie house could instantly turn into a temple. It’s alive in ways that no other motion picture ever has been. And it goes against all the recent chatter about cinema being dead.
For from looks of Boyhood, the art form might still just be getting warmed up. Thanks are owed to Richard Linklater. I welcome more.