Over a quarter of a century on, Gemma Creagh gives her take on this classic era of film.
At the turn-of-the-century, society and technology as we knew it looked very different. We were stockpiling for the Millennium Bug. Netflix was a barely known DVD subscription service, still in its infancy. An acquitted Clinton was still in the White House. The Euro had just been rolled out. Napster was just about to wreak havoc on distribution models and if your mobile had Snake, you were well ahead of the curve. At this time, the film industry operated in a vastly different ecosystem — one where Hollywood studios celebrated mid-budget, character-driven dramas that dared to say something. There was an appetite for risk, for stories that were strange, bold, and reflected the world we live in. Well, if you were white, straight and well off, at least.
This creatively fertile ground gave rise to a wave of complex and ambitious cinema that’s almost unimaginable in today’s IP obsessed, franchise-dominated landscape. In part one, Peter Murphy looks at the stylistic influences of the era and technical achievements of Magnolia, The Matrix, The Sixth Sense, Fight Club, and The Straight Story, noting how three out of those five films predicted elements of extreme subcultures that would emerge in the next century. Also, two huge factors that would both change society on a global scale loomed just around the corner. 9/11 and then the 2008 Financial Crash saw the reality, fears, and living conditions of audiences change unequivocally, and with this, so does their taste in film. Of course it would; how can you emotionally invest in navel-gazing existentialism or to root for a protagonist chasing fulfilment when your base needs in Maslow’s hierarchy aren’t being met? The casual entitlement and dreamy malaise of films like American Beauty or The Virgin Suicides can’t resonate in the same way when you can’t feed your family and are about to lose your house. What followed was an era of escapism and catharsis, but that’s another article altogether.
Needless to say, the world has shifted since, but in that fleeting, pre-millennium moment, these films held up a mirror and captured the essence of the era.
American Beauty
“I’m sick and tired of being treated like I don’t exist,” Kevin Spacey’s Lester Burnham drawls, echoing the plight of the middle-aged, white, middle-class man — a sentiment that seems to permeate so many films from this era.
Lester is henpecked. He’s berated and belittled by his vacuous wife, Carolyn (Annette Bening), and isolated from his detached daughter, Jane (Thora Birch). With seemingly no hobbies or friends, he spends his days unappreciated in a generic and unfulfilling corporate job. That is, until he first sees Angela Hayes (Mena Suvari), a 16-year-old friend of his daughter. The sexual awakening Lester experiences upon meeting her leads him to make a series of changes in his life. He quits his job, starts working out, and begins smoking Grade A weed, which he purchases from his next-door neighbour, Ricky Fitts (Wes Bentley). Strangely honest due to years of abuse and an unspecified mental illness, Ricky begins an intense relationship with Jane. However, Ricky’s violently conservative and closeted father, Col. Frank Fitts (Chris Cooper), misinterprets Ricky’s fascination with the family as a sexual liaison between Ricky and Lester.
Starting with the casting of Kevin Spacey as a middle-aged, married man who courts a child — there are many elements in this film that have aged like milk. However, the technical crafting of the screenplay is definitely not one of them. The writing, the setup, and the vantage point of the world American Beauty creates are still wonderfully rich. Each character has a powerful and dynamic arc, and their narratives are interwoven deftly. The dialogue and visual storytelling — bar those dodgy VFX petals — blend together well and elevate the film, which builds up to the final and inevitable revelation.
What I never noticed about this film in its heyday was the prevalence of parallel domestic violence in the Fitts and Burnham households. Col. Frank Fitts attacks his son Ricky multiple times, leaving him bleeding and injured. Allison Janney is almost unrecognisable as Barbara Fitts — a near-catatonic woman unable to process the oppression around her. Meanwhile, in the Burnham house, the violence is more nuanced, verbal — a series of everyday attacks that have eroded each of the three family members for years. Lester and Carolyn constantly belittle one another. Carolyn repeatedly comments on Jane’s appearance and even slaps her as tensions reach a boiling point. Lester’s relationship with Jane suffers because of a self-imposed distance that he acknowledges but does nothing to rectify; instead, he pushes the responsibility back to her and then lusts after her teenage friend. As Lester begins to “find himself”, he reasserts his authority as a man by threatening his wife, slamming a plate against the wall, and shouting at his daughter. Good, respectable masculine domestic violence — moderate. Lester maintains a passive victimhood in his life, but let’s not forget he chose this existence. Carolyn is such a caricature of a shallow, vapid woman with “Karen” hair that even the mastery of Annette Bening can’t bring humanity to her. Despite exposition implying how drastically she has changed, what’s clear is how Carolyn lacks self-awareness on such a fundamental level, that their present marriage says more about Lester than it does about her.
One of the most disturbing elements to watch through a modern lens is the power dynamic between Angela and Lester. Initially, due to her crippling insecurity, Angela enjoys flirting and having power over him. Yet when the tables turn and Lester gains confidence and asserts himself, the shift is palpable. As he spews the line, “Do you like muscles?” she responds — but with a real fear in her eyes. Her bluff has been called. At the end of the day, she is a 16-year-old child playing as an adult. Despite the richness of the writing and observational strength of so many moments, this film ultimately buckles under the weight of the coldness it extends to its supporting characters and the undeserved empathy Lester receives.
The Talented Mr Ripley
Since it first graced the big screen 25 years ago, The Talented Mr Ripley has become a defining reference for thrillers exploring the murky desires of an untrustworthy grifter. Now, with the phenomenal critical and audience reception of Saltburn — and the release of the Netflix series Ripley, starring our very own Andrew Scott — a whole new generation is being introduced to the murderous aspirations of social swindlers who target the upper classes. And they’re loving it.
Based on the 1955 novel of the same name, the film follows Tom Ripley (Matt Damon), who is hired by a shipbuilding magnate to travel to Italy and convince his wayward son, Dickie Greenleaf (Jude Law), to return to the United States. From day drinking in the local village to tanning himself in the Mediterranean sun, Dickie and his fiancée, Marge Sherwood (Gwyneth Paltrow), enjoy a rather lavish lifestyle and aren’t quick to hurry back. Not only does Tom not succeed in this task, but he becomes infatuated with Dickie and moves in with the couple. Beautiful and charismatic, Dickie embodies the toxic nature of privilege — dismissing Marge while flagrantly having affairs. When one of Dickie’s conquests becomes pregnant, he fails to take responsibility and she kills herself. Then, when Dickie’s old friend, Freddie Miles (Philip Seymour Hoffman), returns to town, the tenuous friendship Tom has cultivated with the couple is threatened — and Tom takes extreme action.
Where Saltburn overtly addresses its queer subtext early on, The Talented Mr Ripley reveals the depths of Tom’s attraction over time and even employs a bath scene — although a much less explicit one. The film’s visuals and rich world-building are striking, with an opulent and textured portrayal of 1950s wealth. The fashion, architecture and music play beautifully on screen, depicting this coveted world of excess that Tom will do anything to remain part of. The slow-burn character development is executed skilfully, supported by outstanding performances from an A-list cast bringing their A-game — notably Paltrow, Seymour Hoffman, and a young Cate Blanchett. The unspoken chemistry and intangible dynamics are sold by Jude Law’s evanescence, while Matt Damon plays the subtle psychopathy of Tom Ripley with just enough warmth to keep you on board — until that one final murder.
The Virgin Suicides
It’s always revealing when the past looks back at itself. The Virgin Suicides is Sofia Coppola’s debut feature — an ethereal take on the dark coming-of-age novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, written in 1995 and set in the 1970s.
In the wealthy Michigan suburbs, a conservatively Catholic family with five beautiful young daughters — aged 13 to 17 — become the objects of desire and speculation for a community of young men. Their impending deaths, flagged by the title, loom over the most commonplace elements of teenage drama, adding poignancy to each seemingly small domestic moment.
Mr Lisbon (James Woods) is a bumbling, submissive maths teacher working at the local high school, whose parenting style is led by his wife, Mrs Lisbon (Kathleen Turner) — a fearful, overprotective mother. “Obviously, Doctor, you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl,” their young daughter Cecilia tells the psychiatrist who treats her after her first suicide attempt. This statement captures the experiences of these five women. In a world of men observing their short existence, no one ever quite understands their plight. Even as the audience, we never receive that clarity either. Their mental health struggles might be hinted at in the odd remark, a vision of lethargy, or by Lux (Kirsten Dunst) and her overly sexualised behaviour.
At a restrained “party” the parents organise, Cecilia is the first of the sisters to kill herself — throwing herself from the roof in a violent and public death. What follows is their heartbroken parents flip-flopping between controlling their daughters’ every movement and allowing them brief moments of freedom. Lux is allowed to attend the local homecoming with lothario Trip Fontaine (Josh Hartnett) on the condition that he finds other respectable young men to take her sisters — and he quickly finds three eager volunteers. After sleeping with Trip that night, Lux falls asleep and breaks curfew. Trip abandons her, and this act of defiance seals the fate for her and her sisters. As a result, they are reduced to full lockdown, while Lux’s promiscuity escalates — which all eventually leads to the dark events of the title.
Despite Coppola’s strong authorial vision and deft hand — and notwithstanding some powerful performances from the entire cast — The Virgin Suicides reinforces the male gaze. These women are unknowable, mysterious, yet defined by their chasteness. Another issue is how the finger of blame is pointed at a terrified mother who fears for the safety of her family, and not at the men who, at best, fetishise them, and at worst, exploit them. “They did not hear us calling,” an adult Trip retroactively implies about how important his relationship with Lux was to him in a later scene — despite never pursuing her after he got what he wanted.
Much like American Beauty, this film casts a critical eye over middle-class suburban life, the pressures of fitting in, and the cost of lack of expression — while also stressing the conflict in communication and ideals between two generations. The Virgin Suicides gives important space to adolescence, the pain of growing up, and spotlights a world still grappling with issues of gender, mental health and the complexities of youth. The music of 1975 melds with the distinct electronic score by Air, giving a dreamlike yet modern feel, highlighted by the striking visuals and soft lens. Moody and gorgeous, the film does not quite convey the full weight of the tragedy — and on some level mirrors the apathy of the male voyeurs it portrays.
The Blair Witch Project
The Blair Witch Project was a bold, innovative piece of filmmaking that forged the found footage genre while paying tribute to folk horror. Mostly improvised, the film was shot on a shoestring budget — costing merely tens of thousands of dollars. This was reinforced by a more substantial investment in post-production, but it would still be considered a micro-budget feature. When the film screened at the Sundance Film Festival, producers used clever marketing tactics and listed the actors as either “missing” or “deceased”. In the end, The Blair Witch Project grossed over a whopping $250 million worldwide and inspired a whole slate of found footage films — as well as acting as a timely precursor to the mumblecore genre.
The action opens with a title card: “In October of 1994, three student filmmakers disappeared in the woods near Burkittsville, Maryland while shooting a documentary called The Blair Witch Project. A year later, their footage was found.” Three bickering film students — Heather Donahue, Joshua Leonard, and Michael C. Williams — document their journey to a small town to investigate a creepy local legend. Over the course of several days, they film local townspeople, presenting authentically regional vox pops and capturing an array of local characters. They research a number of missing children, get wind of a potential serial killer, and follow up on accounts of a mysterious figure with horse-like hair all over its body. However, when the trio film in the woods — and get hopelessly lost — they begin to hear strange noises at night, which escalate to something truly terrifying.
While this film certainly started a movement and demonstrated to so many filmmakers what can be achieved with very little, the writing remains quite shallow and uncomplicated. These three young actors deliver strong, naturalistic performances, but we don’t get a true sense of who they are. Plus, the reasoning behind them continuing to hold onto the camera in those terrifying moments is very shaky at best — and in a film where one third of the screen time is blurry forest, punctuated by footsteps and shouting, that’s certainly saying something. So many modern horror films have taken this premise and built on it, making this a pivotal film of the era — but not a standalone piece that stands the test of time.
Drop Dead Gorgeous
From the five films, this is my top pick for a rewatch and showcases Kirsten Dunst in a very different light — as the bubbly, ambitious pageant hopeful Amber Atkins. The pacing, the depth of the humour, and the authenticity of the world have stood the test of time. This film predates what we now know as reality television, and the concept of an everyday celebrity on social media was still a long way off. Yet, many of the themes and issues it highlights are still on point for Gen Z and Alpha: the oppressive beauty standards, the discussion of bodily autonomy, and how a conservative community views the role of young women. Although played for laughs, there is a real darkness underpinning many elements — such as the insinuations of sexual assault (by Adam West of all people, who plays himself) — and how the outgoing “queen”, Alexandra Holden (Mary Johanson), is in the throes of a terrible eating disorder.
With guns, cars, ostentatious shows of wealth, and outspoken Christian values, this film authentically examines life in a small Midwestern town — and explores class and social mobility while poking fun at the American Dream. The society depicted is rigged against our working-class protagonist. The film’s writer, Lona Williams, was herself a pageant girl and was raised in Rosemount, Minnesota — and her observations and humour are in every frame.
Much like South Park or the work of Mike Judge, there is little that escapes ridicule. However, much like many comedies of yore, a chunk of the humour stems from punching down, and there are ableist and racist jokes that would never fly today. The film’s use of the mockumentary format — where this community is aware they are being observed, and the performative nature of this engagement — adds to the level of enjoyment. This was certainly a precursor to Best in Show (2000), Little Miss Sunshine (2006), I, Tonya (2017), and — most notably — Mean Girls (2004).
This is another film that pokes fun at consumer culture, and the questionable cosmetic brand that funds the competition goes bust as Amber reaches the final pageant. The performance and talent showcased across the cast is impressive — Dunst, Amy Adams, the warm Brittany Murphy, and the dastardly Denise Richards all have a rich on-screen chemistry, as well as Kirstie Alley and Allison Janney again, as the hypersexual Loretta.
