American Beauty

Friend and loyal follower of my blog, Ryan, recently posted a clip from one of my all-time favorite film scenes.

When I was in high school, junior year to be exact, I was able to recite, word-for-word, nearly every line from the film American Beauty. My friends and I would get many laughs during a slow day in the chemistry lab by taking turns acting out the hysterical Carolyn Burnham (“This is a $4,000 sofa, upholstered in Italian silk. It is not just a couch!”), or the cool, recently liberated Lester Burnahm (“It’s just a couch. This isn’t life. This is just stuff. And lately it’s become more important to you than living. Well honey, that’s just nuts.”). It was also this particular role, underscored by his John Doe in Se7en, that beget my long, still withstanding crush on Kevin Spacey.

For some reason, as of recent, discussion of this film has come up amongst my friends and coworkers. Most people I’ve talked to do not like this film. Actually, most despise it. When I ask why, they mostly just roll their eyes and say something like, “Oh that bag. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Yes, that line, and that whole scene in particular, is pretty terrible. But if we all think back to some of the sappy, melodramatic things we said and did when we were sixteen (the age of the character in the film who calls the bag dancing in the breeze 'beautiful'), I’m sure we’d all roll our eyes in response as well. (I, for one, used to pretend to be a stoner, wore hemp necklaces, and scrawled Simon & Garfunkel lyrics all over my school notebook.) American Beauty haters will also note the sappy, dramatic feel of the film—the dark lighting, the slow, emo-like instrumental score, the bright, striking, and contrasting colors, the cliché lines about life, etc. But there is nary a Hollywood film that doesn’t contain these elements . . . (cough) Wes Anderson (cough). These sappy, emotional shots and scenes are the connective tissue that often caters the film to a wider audience, which means more money, which is all Hollywood really cares for anyway. It’s the small subtle elements that the filmmaker sneaks in, the stuff that slips by the general movie-goer, that makes a Hollywood film good. Does American Beauty contain these nuances? To an extent. And I think it’s evident in the acting and the dialogue. If I were to see American Beauty for the first time today, I may feel differently. But when I first saw it, at the tender and impressionable age of fifteen, I thought it was brilliant.

My connection to the film today is more about nostalgia than anything else. I came upon the film the year after it was released. I got home from school, plopped myself down on our living room sofa, and turned on the television to watch a Saved by the Bell rerun, as I always did. Instead of finding Zack and Kelly mid-make out, the television screen filled with the image of a woman. She was suspended from a ceiling and her naked body was masked by her blonde hair and covered in red rose petals. I later learned that the film had been left in the VCR by my mother. She’d seen a copy of it resting in the $5 video bin at the grocery store one afternoon and, remembering that it had recently won Best Picture, bought it as an impulse-purchase. Turns out she had paused it at this precise moment because, after only fifteen minutes, she found Kevin Spacey’s lustful longing for his sixteen-year-old daughter’s best friend “weird”. I though, a teenager myself, was naturally intrigued by the half-dressed woman and immediately pressed play, anxiously awaiting for what I hoped would be a follow-up sex scene. The anticipated romp didn’t come, but I continued watching the film anyway. I’d become transfixed. And I watched it in its entirety.

I’m sure the suburban setting reminded me of my own, as well as the characters, representing people I knew in my own life. There were several girls I went to school with who were just like Angela (Mena Suvari’s character)—slutty and bitchy—and I was usually friends with them for some reason. I could also relate to Angela, wanting to have sex with every boy, but never actually going all the way. And I felt like Jane (Thora Birch) too, trapped in a small town and resenting my parents for everything. And every now and then, my mother was capable of emotional breakdowns tantamount to those displayed by Carolyn Burnham. I truly believed that this film was made for me.

After my first viewing I watched it again later that night, and then I watched it dozens of times more. Soon I had memorized all of the dialogue. I even wrote the last line of the film down in my journal. (Further proof that the actions of teenagers are often melodramatic.) And the name of this very blog was inspired by the film, from the scene below.

I think it’s safe to assume that seeing this movie is part of why I moved out of the suburbs, to a city. Why I live in a third-floor apartment instead of a house on a cul-de-sac. Why I take the subway or ride my bike instead of driving a car. I think it planted a tiny idea in my head, an idea which was to be nurtured over the next few years by liberally minded friends and a withdrawal from Catholicism. I was also convinced that the reason my mother didn’t like the film was not because it was weird, but because it reminded her too much of her own life. Maybe this was another reason why I liked it.

In closing, thank you Lester Burnham & co.! Thank you for nothing short of saving my life. And also for giving me the idea to fake a seizure when I get bored at a party. This will be my goal for 2010.