The ritual of growing up is conceptualized and romanticized in a profusion of coming-of-age movies: the genre has immortalized the progression from adolescence to adulthood in moments of glamour and recklessness that always conclude in a pivotal instance of self-recognition. The tropes of coming-of-age movies have been so frequently depicted in contemporary teen films (Mean Girls, Easy A) that they achieve a false sense of legitimacy: the conventional scenarios are accepted as a reflection of reality. The fictional depiction of growing up is beautiful and seems to titter on the edge of reality, as if the onscreen world can be willed into existence through a rose-coloured filter while a dream-pop soundtrack pulsates in the background.
When I started my freshman year at the University of Toronto, my expectations were established upon the glowing imagery and aestheticism of a stereotypical coming-of-age film. I imagined midnight car rides through the ever-waking city, trips to fast food joints in the AM… even all-nighters at the library took on an enchanting hue. However, the first month of university stripped me of my delusion as the workload increased and homesickness settled in. The disillusionment of the university experience prompted me to question if I was wasting my youth by prioritizing my academic endeavors. The coming-of-age genre has long structured itself around the idealization of romance as the ultimate marker of maturity. In doing so, it cruelly suggests that my indifference to the idea prohibits me from fully achieving the milestones of growing up.
I believe, in order to truly capture the evolution from youth to adulthood, the genre requires a new perspective that better reflects the contemporary world. The solo directorial debut of Greta Gerwig offers this sense of authenticity through Lady Bird (2017). Hidden beneath the warm nostalgia that embodies Gerwig’s cinematic style lies the unmistakable theme of feminism. Lady Bird narrates the senior year of Christine “Lady Bird” McPherson as she navigates the typical obstacles of adolescence—boyfriends, university applications, popularity, and an overly critical mother. However, the tropes of coming-of-age are deconstructed to reflect real, ordinary, boring people who are recognizable in the real world. There is something incredibly mundane about Gerwig’s portrayal of growing up that is devoid of the usual glamour and distinctly resembles my own experience.
In the opening scene of the film, Lady Bird is returning home after a college tour with her mother, Marion. On the car ride home, in the absence of any stimulation, Lady Bird laments, “I wish I could live through something.” To this, her mother replies, “Aren’t you?” Lady Bird’s bitter dissatisfaction with her uneventful adolescence is a common sentiment — one that stems from the repetitive tropes of coming-of-age films. She is in fact living through “something”: she is struggling with her identity, the constraints of her Catholic high school, her father’s depression, her mother’s overbearing expectations, and her family’s financial destitution. Yet, she sincerely wishes to live through “something”—to experience the coming-of-age obstacles in a fictional storyline so that she might also havethat momentous flash of self-recognition that cements her identity and resolves her hardships. However, Lady Bird deviates from the genre structure by omitting this sudden moment of maturity. For Lady Bird, maturity comes slowly and quietly through her actions and inactions. Gerwig’s divergence from convention adds a layer of authenticity to the film, as it mirrors the lack of climax in real life.
The tumultuous relationship between Lady Bird and her mother, Marion, is touching, yet incredibly difficult to watch. Their affections for each other are calloused yet undaunted by each rebuff; Marion constantly—often unconsciously—chastises Lady Bird in the hopes that she will be the “best version” of herself. Despite her harsh comments, however, Marion can also be non-judgmental and understanding when Lady Bird confides in her. When unable to verbally express her love for her daughter, Marion turns to her maternal instincts, showering endless attention on a teenage girl attempting to establish her independence. Marion is never the villain of the film, as mothers often are, but a deeply flawed character with trouble communicating and understanding her daughter.
In many ways, I recognize the character of Lady Bird in myself: the desire to escape propelled by aspirations, the unshakable feeling of somehow missing out on life, and the inability to communicate candidly with my parents. In the end, Lady Bird achieves her ambition of leaving Sacramento to attend a liberal arts college on the East Coast. Yet, despite her success, the consequences of her fulfilled desires are also painfully accurate. After a disastrous night of youthful uninhibition, Lady Bird wakes up at the hospital having finally lived the life she so desperately desired in Sacramento. The fulfillment of her perceived “dream” prompts her to attend mass for the first time since leaving high school and call Marion: “Hi Mom and Dad, it’s me. Christine. It’s the name you gave me. It’s a good one.”
The film ends with Lady Bird describing the first time she drove through Sacramento to visit her mother. She notices the trees, the bridge, the bends and curves of the roads that form her hometown. They are vivid in her memory, despite her claim that she hates Sacramento. Her attention to detail, similar to Marion, is an expression of love. Her reconciliation with Sacramento suggests that running away is not the solution to feelings of insecurity and unfulfillment. As I returned home for the summer, Lady Bird highlighted my own lack of introspection in moments when I longed to leave. As I exited the highway, it was no coincidence that I also noticed the trees, the bridge, the bends and curves of the road.
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