American Graffiti
The young living
through the heady days of
1962 could never know the trials to come.
Much as with the burgeoning adults characterized in American Graffiti, a sheltered
world of extended childhood was soon to end.
This age group is wholly
unique in the American
experience. Born at the close of the war that positioned
their nation as the most powerful in history, these
children grew up in an age
of unprecedented prosperity and fear.
Many of the huge cultural shifts
that seem to be triggered by President Kennedy's assassination gathered steam
while parents
hosted cocktail parties, indifferent to endemic racism and collapsing moral
standards, particularly
in the sensitive
arenas of sex.
George
Lucas was prescient enough to recognize his generation's revolutionary loss of
innocence even before the decade was out.
Learning that cruising was a courting ritual peculiar to America, he set
out to document its passing in cinema-verite fashion, using a
semi-autobiographical account of fading high school glories.
His
extraordinary efforts still resonate today.
The concerns of these characters find voice through succeeding generations—the
fundamental issue presented in American
Graffiti is one still unmet by an easy answer: Should a person leave home, testing ambition
against talent, dismissing anything less as an abrogation of education and an indictment
on individual worth; or should he stay close, caring for family and community,
dismissing anything more as fruitless questing and selfish indulgence?
As
the movie begins, Curt betrays his preference for stasis, not sacrifice. Clinging to a sad netherworld of lingering
immaturity, with nothing to contribute, staying home would benefit no one but
himself. But, displaying great
perception and thoughtfulness, his potential engenders hope in the
audience. He teeters between idealism
(his strong affection for Kennedy) and indolence (killing time with gal-pal
burn-out Wendy).
Curt's
episode with the Pharaohs is particularly revealing. Trapped in a dangerous predicament, he stays
cool and works to build their trust and secure his freedom. However, he performs his chores of
conscription with curious aplomb, such that these killers are impressed enough
to welcome him into the gang.
The
film is not merely a snapshot of time and place. Though it was the first to follow the actions
of a large number of characters through a series of disassociated vignettes, American Graffiti's radical methodology
serves the story. Curt is one of four
young men we follow. Many auxiliary
characters interact with them, the most important being Lori. However, the girls' stories are ignored
except for when they directly involve Curt, Toad, Steve, and John. We see how four men accept the
responsibilities that come with adulthood.
We see Curt turning away from the inevitability of change. We see Steve embrace it. We see Toad look ahead, eager; we see John look
back, wistful. With this broader
sampling, a more holistic truth emerges.
In
addition to its pseudo-documentary feel and refreshing emphasis on ensemble
performance, American Graffiti is
revolutionary in its use of music. In
the years immediately preceding its release, hit songs came to be seen as a
primary component of a hit movie. Lucas
turned this convention on its head. If a
couple of songs could contribute to a merely successful film, what would forty do?
But
Lucas wanted old songs (that nobody listened to), not new. And instead of providing a break in the
action, these songs would never stop.
They would be 1962 in a way that the production design and costumes
could not with the tight budget. From
the director's perspective, American
Graffiti was a musical without singing.
It was brilliant, audacious, and unprecedented.
The
only score in the film fleetingly contributes to the goat killer scene out in
the woods. It is the songs that serve in
the place of traditional scoring, commenting on the action. "Chantilly Lace," with its
memorable opening 'Hello, Baaaby!' begins right as Toad looks up to find the
two muscle-bound car thieves hovering over him.
"Goodnight, Sweetheart" is played for Curt's farewell at the
airport, and Steve and Laurie dance to "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" as
they reflect on the genesis of their love.
Fearing their future lost, Laurie cries.
"To the Aisle," laying out the progressive nature of young
lovers destined for marriage, is played as Steve and Laurie discuss his plans
for the future, in the Edsel.
In
this same scene Steve tells Laurie, "Now, you know what I want out of
life. And it's just not in this
town." Did Steve really want more? Was his goal of distinguishing himself
asinine? We never know, because he
stays. Facing desperate entreaties,
Steve relents; with Lori's behavior bordering on the self-destructive (her
fateful ride with Bob Falfa permits no other interpretation), Steve either
realized how much he dearly loved her, or, out of guilt, felt he had no choice
but to stay. After initially inspiring
the audience with an impassioned desire to accept the challenges of college,
Steve's selfishness became apparent in his insensitive exchanges with Lori. But, in the end, he demonstrates great selflessness. Though the poorest drawn of the four lead
roles, Steve's character arc emphasizes the centrality of motivation in all
decisions—indeterminate motivation precludes wisdom. Because his motivation is unclear, we do not
know if Steve made the right choice...until we look at the film's characters
together.
Because
of its fragmented perspective, jumping between the four main characters as they
proceed through this momentous night, identifying a single protagonist is
difficult. Ultimately, Curt is the
man. It doesn't seem to be his story all
along, but by the end he is central. And
in a film with many different characters, one man is revered by all –Wolfman
Jack. He is the unifying element. All radios are tuned to this voice. By this reasoning, the most important scene
in the movie is Curt's visit to the Wolfman.
He goes to track down the Thunder-blonde, but he also needs advice. Wolfman is humble, identifying himself as a
mere appendage to the great DJ's operations.
He continually offers Curt a popsicle.
The popsicle serves as a symbol, a metaphor for worry-free living. Asked to disclose the location of the real
Wolfman, he replies, "The Wolfman is everywhere." On the cut back to Curt, we hear a strange
echo of the Wolfman's voice from one of the tapes. It is like the Wolfman's voice is the Wolfman, himself, and because his
voice is carried by radio all over, he is everywhere. The whole scene reinforces the mystery of the
Wolfman, even after his true nature is disclosed. A god-like figure, he offers the clearest
moral advice of the whole film. Thus,
Curt's decision to leave is the right one simply because that is what the
Wolfman wanted for him.
Of
all the great finishes to great films, the shattering conclusion of American Graffiti may be the finest,
striking the perfect balance of plot resolution with the mystery and
frustration of an open-ended denouement.
As the fates of the four characters are revealed with ominous yellow
text, we see why we've ended with Curt—of the four, he is the one guy who will
move forward in life. Quietly
overwhelmed with wonder and sadness, we are left with the memory of moments
that now assume a previously unrealized poignancy: Curt walking the halls, alone, thinking; Toad
and John commiserating as the sun rises, "Okay, Toad—we'll take 'em
all;" Steve badgering Curt for lingering in his "cell," John
recalling the great street drag calamities of the recent past with Carol, Toad
walking toward the water with Debbie.
But
before we get too torn up, the timeless sounds of The Beach Boys launch us into
the credits—and what could be more appropriate?; "All Summer Long" is
the perfect song, encapsulating joys of youth lost to the past, never to be
forgotten.
The
film is exquisitely designed. It is
balanced, symmetrical, loaded with humor, conflict, great beauty, and the happy
memories we'd all like to have known.
This is landmark cinema.