Boyhood
(2014)
(SPOILERS) Richard Linklater’s one-time shoe-in Best
Picture winner went from being early favourite to also-ran as the initial wow
factor of its logistical achievement subsided. Making a film at intervals over
a 12-year period is indeed quite something, but more impressive is how it
achieves its storytelling goals seamlessly and subtly. It has no earthly need
to be nearly three hours long, yet it never becomes a chore to watch, despite
its young protagonist having resoundingly uneventful formative years. The drama
occurs on the periphery, as do Linklater’s less measured indulgences. This is
where you can hear the same guy who made the Before… trilogy voicing his adorably trapped-in-amber student
philosophising and political discourses.
Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the picture is how
passive Mason Jr (Ellar Cochrane) is. That’s not a negative in this case,
although it may be for some; we follow Mason Jr from the age of six and, the
odd flare up aside, he never becomes a clichéd troubled or rebellious youth
(perhaps that is really why his girlfriend calls him weird, since there are no
other obvious indications). In a genre (and reality) where this age range is
always the end of the world for those experiencing it, it’s interesting to see
a teen go apparently untraumatised through such turbulent times, a
contemplative observer, even as his domestic situation undergoes tumultuous
change.
Cochrane isn’t always the most naturalistic physical
performer, but his understated manner helps him along (more consistently
impressive is Lorelai Linklater as his sister Samantha). Linklater only comes
unstuck when he attempts to foist his own preoccupations on the character, diving
into the kind of shallow stoner contemplation that is probably his most
consistent trope. So Mason Jr musing on how we’ve become robots through
technology is a bolt from the blue; where did that come from? At least his
campaigning for Obama has the touch of dad (Ethan Hawke).
That’s the main problem here. If you’ve seen enough
Linklater films you recognise the same conversation clusters repeating. One can
put that down to the “like father, like son” influence here, but Hawke’s Mason
Sr is a slacker version of his Before…
character. Political punctuation points never feel finessed, so the War on
Terror repeatedly intrudes on the conversation with a big arrows pointing to
it. While Mason Sr’s wife’s family turn out to be Bible bashers, Linklater at
least exercises some restraint in not making them evangelical crazies. They
still give Mason Jr a shotgun for his sixteenth birthday, though. Linklater
handles the way in which kids are wont to idolise the less-than-perfect absent
parent perceptively, but his parting shot of Mason Sr’s empty wallet when he
offers to contribute to his son’s graduation party is clumsy at best.
The best passages are those focusing on the experiences of
mum Olive (Patricia Arquette, more than earning her Oscar statuette) and her
serial lack of luck with the men in her life. Marco Perella amps up the charm
as her second husband and former professor, until his drinking problem
manifests as spousal abuse. Perella perhaps isn’t so good with the dramatics
(the tense meal scene featuring flying glass borders on parody at moments; I
could easily see Will Ferrell performing it), but Arquette contrastingly
carries these episodes powerfully. We also witness her repetitive cycles and
tendencies matter-of-factly; her passivity in relationships until the situation
snaps and she is compelled to act, and the recurrence similar types recur in
one’s life; Jim (Brad Hawkins), her next beau, is a veteran and one of her
students (a little too neat mirroring there of her previus hubby) and he too
has problems with drink. Her moment wondering where life goes as her kids leave
the roost and she moves house is somewhat telegraphed, but poignant
nevertheless.
Being in part an exploration of his own upbringing, it’s
probably no surprise Linklater should have Mason Jr gravitate towards a career
in the arts, so its welcome that he doesn’t opt to have his alter persona
offered everything on a plate (his photography teacher advises that talent
isn’t enough on its own). Generally though, Linklater’s film is more successful
when he doesn’t announce his themes and indulge his pop sensibilities. The
picture begins with the easy emoting choice of Coldplay’s Yellow and ends with a space caked rumination on how we don’t seize
the moment, “the moment seizes us”.
Both are Linklater at his most Linklater, but in between it’s the restraint and
contemplation that impress the most.
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