Right now you can watch in theatres a small indie called American Honey, a road trip flick that
won the jury prize at this year’s Cannes Film Festival. And this weekend sees
the opening of American Pastoral, an
ambitious family drama based on one of Philip Roth’s most acclaimed novels.
Directed by and starring Ewan McGregor (in the unlikely role of an American
Jewish husband and father coping with life in the Sixties), it made its debut
at the Toronto International Film Festival.
It has always amazed me how many movie titles start with the
word American. Off the top of my
head, there’s American Graffiti, American
Gigolo, and American Ninja. Not to
mention An American in Paris, An American
Werewolf in London, and An American
Tail. Much more recently we’ve had American
Heart, American Pie, American Psycho, American Hustle, and American Sniper. On TV, of course, there
was until recently American Idol (based
on a British show much more modestly called Pop
Idol.) And, currently, American
Horror Story and American Crime
Story. Plus, of course, The
Americans. When Richard Schickel published a biography of the brilliant but
racist filmmaker, D.W., Griffith, he gave it the subtitle “An American Life.”
And Paula Uruburu’s fascinating look at the life of notorious showgirl Evelyn
Nesbit is called American Eve.
What does it say about the American people that we seem to respond
to titles that shine a spotlight on our national character? The recently
popular phrase “American Exceptionalism” seems to make the point that we who
live in the United States (Canada and Mexico don’t count) think of ourselves
collectively as awfully important on the world stage. Sometimes we’re a force
for good and sometimes for evil, but nothing done by an American can be
considered insignificant. And when an American steps forward, for good or for
ill, he or she is not just an individual but rather a representative of our entire culture.
All of which leads me to mention one of the bleakest Oscar
winners of all time, 1999’s American
Beauty. I watched this film, starring Kevin Spacey and Annette Bening,
again recently, and was blown away by its craftsmanship and its power. (Kudos
both to director Sam Mendes and screenwriter Alan Ball.) American Beauty is undeniably dark in its depiction of suburban
life, and of the disintegration of the nuclear family unit. As is the case with
the great Sunset Blvd., it is
narrated by a dead man, one who was not really living even prior to his abrupt
demise. In American Beauty, many of
the less-appealing aspects of American life are put under the microscope: crass
materialism, homophobia, drug use, obsessive body culture, the inability of
even the most articulate of wage-slaves to share what’s on their minds with
those they love. The protagonist, disappointed in so many aspects of his
materially comfortable life, lusts after a teenage girl, in a way that is calculated
to make us (or at least most of us) feel uncomfortable.
And yet . . . and yet. The other side of American Beauty is one that recognizes
that there is beauty in American
life. The film’s most sensitive soul is (of all things) a young drug dealer, whose
home life is horrendous but who’s blessed with the ability to recognize
loveliness when he sees it. The film’s advertising catchphrase is “Look
closer,” and by the end of the film the doomed hero has recognized that
life—his life, American life—is crammed full of simple and beautiful things.
Like a plastic bag blowing in the wind. Or a really terrific film.
Bruce Tracy, this one's for you.
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