In a January 2018 interview with Variety, Greta Gerwig says that she 'wanted to show what it was inside.' She mentions the films of John Hughes and says that, despite how much they meant to her growing up, they never quite captured the reality of her experiences as a teenager and young woman. Indeed, no cinematic portrayal of coming of age can be truly universal. Although we share many rites of passage in our teen years, this period is also marked by bursts of individuality. Many of us will strive to fit in and follow the crowd, yet, equally, most of us are never surer of the importance and totality of our perspective as when we are young.
The coming of age genre has a notable tendency to conflate young adulthood with wider societal and generational shifts. The protagonist rages against the confines of society and expectations of family, transgressing mores and values until he or she finally finds a place which feels like their own. In older examples of the genre, this often meant adapting to societal roles, subsuming one's conviction into the existing structures of our world. Sometimes, though not always, this realisation follows some sort of tragic incident or loss, with the harsh impact of reality focusing the teenager's decidedly singular attentions on a bigger picture. It seems fair to characterise these narratives as distinctly paternalistic, and indeed many of the better-known examples of the genre focus on male protagonists. Young men on film have a tendency to involve wider figures or society in their coming-of-age journeys (think Rebel without a Cause or The Wild One, or even the great parade singalong of Ferris Bueller), suggesting that the world around them should adapt to take note of their perspective. Young women, on the other hand, tend to be actively erased even from the few narratives which position them as lead. Their journeys frequently incorporate looks at image, ambition, and blossoming sexuality, but often these are used to brutalise or shame the protagonist, implying a necessary period of pain and emotional upheaval on her journey to womanhood. These tropes are by no means limited to depictions of girlhood or young womanhood on film, but they are particularly pernicious devices when portraying a period of development in which, in real life, studies consistently show girls' self-confidence plummeting.
Lady Bird is a cinematic portrayal of young womanhood, and one which, at first glance, seems to incorporate many of the narrative conventions of the genre. Lady Bird (a luminous Saoirse Ronan) fights with her mother, flits in and out of friendships, and explores her interest in sex and relationship. However, its approach to these conventions is quietly, brilliantly radical. Lady Bird is a film in which nothing bad happens, where there is no explicit moralising or condemnation of its protagonist's behaviour, and - crucially - one which allows the focus and confines of its narrative to flow entirely from the perspective of a teenage girl. Everything we see in this film, we see from Lady Bird's point of view. The gaze is thoroughly her own and thoroughly female, rooted in a singular and insular personal focus which takes absolutely no cues from the outside world. It is confident, authentic, and, in its sincere belief in the validity of a teenage girl's
Lady Bird:
The very best version of itself
Words: Grace Duffy
24 CinÉireann / June 2018