AMERICAN BEAUTY (1999)

In 1999, America was looking at itself in the mirror—but it didn’t like what it saw. Though perfect from a distance, people were starting to look closer. Like a dark red rose, the beguiling petals were alluring but betrayed the true nature of contemporary reality. While beautiful on the surface, there was a world of rot underneath the soil. At the turn of the century, as people began analysing their lives, the collective realisation was that they all had lost something… and they were searching to get it back.

Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) is a self-confessed loser. His wife, Carolyn (Annette Bening), holds him underneath her thumb. His daughter, Jane (Thora Birch), has no respect for him. He loathes his job, and he resents the fact he must fight to keep it. But most of all, he hates what his life has become: a perfunctory charade, a prolonged attempt to save face and perpetuate an image of superficial happiness and success. Lester is the face of suburban malaise… and he’s had enough.

American Beauty reflects a national identity crisis told at the personal level. It’s a country’s existential panic in microcosm. As Fight Club (1999) and Office Space (1999) revealed in similar ways, there was a deep, pervasive sickness in contemporary consumer society, one that had robbed people of a certain degree of their humanity. In American Beauty, a film concerned with alienation, neurosis, and our search for meaning, we are shown how something is rancid at the root of modernity.

Director Sam Mendes and screenwriter Alan Ball seem to be suggesting that the very civilisation we pride ourselves on, with all its advancements, comforts, and conveniences, is slowly killing us. The suburban disenchantment that characterises the film is hinted at in several different ways. Most prominently, it provides the ironic title for the film itself: about fifty years prior, this was the pinnacle of the American Dream. So why is it so damned soul-crushing? Such an existence can only be considered beautiful when seen from afar—so look closer.

In the opening sequence, we’re given a hint as to what the root cause of all this might just be: as Lester steps out of bed in the morning, his feet fall perfectly into his white, fluffy slippers, ready and waiting for him to start his day. It’s such a simple shot, but it conveys the excruciating dullness of Lester’s unending suburban torment: every day will be the same, but every day he will lose just a little bit more of himself.

Much like the Narrator in Fight Club, he has everything he should ever want: a house, a family, and a stable job. So why is it that this comfort has such a deadening effect? Perhaps it’s because, in these small moments, he realises how empty his life truly is. Neither Lester nor the Narrator have any prominent threat to their health or security, nothing to fight for, or to awaken them to the fact that their life is precious, and constantly getting closer to ending. Such unrivalled levels of tedium have rendered existence uncommonly boring, and the result is a debilitating numbness.

As Lester’s voiceover begins at the start of the film, one can hear this lethargy in his intonation: “My name is Lester Burnham. This is my neighbourhood. This is my street. This… is my life.” He sounds completely unimpressed by his existence. He doesn’t even sound disappointed when he reveals that he’ll be deceased within the year. As he muses: “In a way, I’m dead already.”

It’s the deadening effect of consumer capitalism that he, Carolyn, and the rest of the neighbourhood pride themselves on: “See the way the handle on those pruning shears matches her gardening clogs? That’s not an accident.” Passionate demonstrations of affection are interrupted after Carolyn becomes terrified a dribble of beer may be spilt on the sofa: “This is a four thousand pound sofa upholstered in Italian silk.” As the newly-enlightened Lester screams at the top of his lungs: “It’s! Just! A! Couch!”

Intimacy cannot flourish under a system that prioritises surface appeal. As such, American Beauty is a film that explores what we consider meaningful, and why. Lester and Carolyn are both drowning in perfection, suffocating under the weight of an idealised image of familial bliss; they have everything, yet they are wholly vacant. They listen to elevator music to paper over the long, unpleasant silences that define their household. They don’t know each other, and quite frankly, they don’t want to, either.

It’s the epitome of 1990s alienation, a theme which was deftly explored in Steven Soderbergh’s prescient Sex, Lies, and Videotape (1989), as well as many of the films previously mentioned. Mendes and Ball are both keenly interested in how material society essentially erodes meaning from individuals’ lives, not to mention the chronic passivity and vacuous personalities that consumer capitalism engenders in people, perhaps best exemplified in Mena Suvari’s performance as Angela Hayes.

However, Lester’s transformation is not as uncompromising as Tyler Durden’s anarchism, nor as coherent as Peter Gibbons’ rebellion. He doesn’t become an ascetic, move into a rickety old house with leaks and broken floorboards, nor does he truly act against the society he believes has robbed him of his masculinity or sense of self. He continues to indulge in said consumerism, purchasing his favourite car as a demonstration of his long-overdue emancipation.

Despite this, this 1999 trilogy of modern disenchantment is consistent in how our protagonists believe their freedom can be achieved: by getting in touch with the senses, which is perhaps the only thing that can be truly believed in a world filled with advertisements and commercial interests. Like a Cartesian thought experiment, our characters live by the adage: “I feel, therefore I am.” Bodily pain and pleasure are presented as the final refuge in a society that has alienated its populace from their own humanity, and distracted them from their own primal urges.

In Fight Club, that entails getting punched in the face—a lot. In Office Space, it results in Peter Gibbons dressing more comfortably, enjoying the great outdoors, and essentially doing whatever he wants. In American Beauty, it’s first found in Lester’s shameful act of daily masturbation in the shower. As his wife fetishises material objects, he is left to indulge himself in a pitifully resigned attempt to eschew his feelings of ineptitude: “Both my wife and daughter think I’m this gigantic loser, and… they’re right.”

Pain, autonomy, and sexuality are how our protagonists transcend the apathy that characterises their lives in Fight Club, Office Space, and American Beauty, respectively. At the turn of the century, these films undeniably made such a large imprint on the public because they spoke to the everyday experience: “I have lost something. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I know I didn’t always feel this… sedated.”

In short, these were stories about average individuals searching for meaning. Much like in Rear Window (1954), released almost exactly 45 years earlier, this theme of introspection and self-examination is manifested in the voyeuristic tendencies of a curious bystander. What, precisely, typifies the average American citizen? When Ricky Fitts (Wes Bentley) videotapes Lester stripping naked while weight-lifting in front of the window, we’re given a hint at what the answer might be: a desperate desire to feel extraordinary, to overcome stifling mediocrity.

As Angela reveals, there is one thing above all that should be avoided, especially in America: “There’s nothing worse than being ordinary.” Indeed, everyone in American Beauty is attempting to reinvent themselves, which once again relates to a preoccupation with surface appearances. But of course, not everyone can be exceptional; some will have to bite the bullet and settle for a humdrum existence.

In this, we can see how Ball paints a rather stunning critique of his country’s ethos: the American Dream is designed not to be accessible to the masses. Ostensibly, anyone can do it—but certainly not everyone. What kind of national philosophy is that? In hilariously different ways, each character tries to become (or at least feel) special in their own way: Angela flirts with adults, Carolyn has an affair and listens to motivational speeches in her car, Lester gets in shape, and Buddy Kane fires a gun, which is perhaps one of the more obvious critiques of American identity (not to mention a brilliant piece of foreshadowing).

The only character who doesn’t make overt attempts to feel special is perhaps the least “normal” person in the film: Ricky. He’s unabashedly authentic, honest, and true to himself. His genuine demeanour rubs off on Jane, who consequently begins wearing less and less make-up as the film goes on; she’s doing away with superficial appearances in a society that worships them.

American Beauty is stunningly directed by Sam Mendes, which earned him the Academy Award for ‘Best Director’ at the age of only 34, in his directorial debut, no less. Though there’s an argument the nod should have been given to David Fincher for Fight Club, Paul Thomas Anderson for Magnolia (1999), M. Night Shyamalan for The Sixth Sense (1999), or Spike Jonze for Being John Malkovich (1999), Mendes’ work here typifies what AMPAS love in cinema: an artistic vision that renders the everyday into the transcendental.

This is probably dramatised best in the oft-parodied fantasy sequence, with roses exploding from a nubile girl’s torso to symbolise a middle-aged man’s sexual reawakening. Aided by cinematographer Conrad L. Hall, Mendes uses the composition to impart Alan Ball’s themes in a manner akin to that of Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage (1974).

Mendes has since revealed that he specifically wanted to avoid using close-ups, which contributed to our characters always feeling distant. At a family dinner, Hall utilises a long shot to make the family appear isolated and alone in their own home; their family dinner feels barren. It’s a superlative example of how the image directly links to the story’s thematic framework.

American Beauty isn’t just a visual treat, it’s appealing to the ears, too. Thomas Newman’s score is iconic: when the bells start, the film begins in earnest. The music is phenomenal. It provides a family drama with a pulsating rhythm, as though it were wordlessly conveying to the audience that we are all about to go on a life-changing journey.

In particular, Newman’s arrangement for “Dead Already” is vital for the film’s overall success; without such a gripping, mysterious opening theme, I doubt the film would have become as much of a success that year, nor would it be as revered today. It gets the film rolling in a surprisingly riveting manner: it invites us in, with an enigmatic bell orchestra gripping our attention from the very first moment.

Much like the music, the voiceover creates momentum and draws in the audience. We’re curious to see where this is all going, and our narrator assures us it’s someplace interesting. Kevin Spacey’s leading performance is terrific. However, though she wasn’t honoured at the Oscars, it’s Annette Bening who steals the show in every scene she’s in. Repeating her mantra (“I will sell this house today!”) and slapping herself for bawling in tears after an unsuccessful string of clients, Bening is phenomenal. She’s not just brilliant in dramatic sequences, but deeply funny as well. Holding her legs in the air, all the while screaming “Fuck me, your Majesty!” provides hearty laughs amidst an otherwise introspective film.

Another excellent performance is given by Chris Cooper as the closeted ex-Marine Col. Frank Fitts. Perhaps more than anyone else in the story, it’s Frank’s search (and repression) for personal identity that gives the film its more poignant moments. He has renounced himself so he could subscribe to the attitudes that surround him. Perversely, group mentality is shown to annihilate the individual, which supposedly is held to be sacred within American founding mythology.

Cooper’s sublime performance is also behind the film’s most powerful scene: when he finally tries to be true to himself and be honest with his innermost feelings, he’s rejected, and this rejection mirrors the denial that has characterised his entire life. His revenge on Lester is not even about Lester—it’s Cooper’s homophobia writ large, the rationalisation of his neuroses; he’s killing the manifestation of his homoerotic impulses. Though occasionally it feels as though there is one too many narrative interests by including Frank’s story, the film ultimately achieves equilibrium.

Everyone else is also in top form. Peter Gallagher plays yet another smug philanderer, with the same sleazy personality and the same impeccable eyebrows, as though he had just walked straight out of Sex, Lies, and Videotape. Thora Birch and Mena Suvari are brilliant together. Finally, Wes Bentley’s portrayal as Ricky Fitts, a disturbed teen who’s been neglected and abused by his parents, remains uncommonly powerful.

Amongst all of this, we’re left with the question: what is beauty? It’s a question that’s defined the philosophy of aesthetics for centuries, but there’s no one true answer. It’s what everyone in the film is searching for, in some way. Ricky’s monologue, which is still capable of delivering goosebumps, cryptically edifies the audience: it’s the ineffable, indescribable feeling of being acutely alive, as though God were looking right at you: “That’s the day I realised that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid. Ever.”   

American Beauty is a film that can feel difficult to gauge. It’s certainly not meretricious, but it may not be quite as profound as it thinks it is. If nothing else, it should be accredited for being able to dupe so many audience members into believing it was the best film of the year. Fight Club was never going to win ‘Best Picture’, but it should have done, if not the likes of Magnolia, Being John Malkovich, The Insider (1999), The Matrix (1999), The Green Mile (1999), or Eyes Wide Shut (1999). Just from looking at this small list alone, it’s clear there was tough competition that year.

The film ends with a bang, and while the journey isn’t quite over, we finish in media res—just as in life. That’s because our search for meaning is never truly complete. The idea that such a pursuit could ever have a terminus, or could ever be touched and held like Carolyn’s Italian sofa, is an illusion, like running after a plastic bag in the wind. It’s possible our characters never truly lost anything at all, because it was never really there. And maybe, what the film is suggesting is that it’s true of all of us—we just never noticed. But now, it’s time to look closer.

USA | 1999 | 122 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Sam Mendes.
writer: Alan Ball.
starring: Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening, Thora Birch, Wes Bentley, Mena Suvari, Peter Gallagher, Allison Janney, Chris Cooper, Scott Bakula, Sam Robards, Amber Smith & Barry Del Sherman.