Lady Bird

Greta Gerwig is one of those rare actors whose films conform around her persona so as to constitute a sub-genre unto themselves.  When someone says, “a Greta Gerwig movie,” you get a instant idea of what the picture will be like almost as accurately as the assumption you’d make if someone said, “a Clint Eastwood movie”—though Gerwig’s range as an actor is somewhat broader than Mr. Eastwood’s. Between 2006 and 2009, she was part of the micro-budget indie movement dubbed by reviewers as “mumblecore,” appearing in, co-writing, and co-directing films by Joe Swanberg (LOL, Hannah Takes the Stairs, Nights and Weekends). In the 2010s she began a fruitful collaboration with writer/director Noah Baumbach, starring in Greenberg, Frances Ha, and Mistress America—the latter two movies that she co-wrote. These pictures, along with star turns in Whit Stillman’s Damsels in Distress, Rebecca Miller’s Maggie's Plan, and Todd Solondz’s Wiener-Dog, established the impression that “a Greta Gerwig movie,” is a quirky, indie comedy featuring a determined young woman with a distinctive combination of hip self-confidence and awkward self-sabotage.  Many critics have called Gerwig’s screen persona, “adorkable,” even though she’s appeared in several films over this same decade in which her roles do not fit these classifications at all, like Mia Hansen-Løve’s Eden, Mike Mills’s 20th Century Women, and Pablo Larraín’s Jackie. But we will all need to revise our assumptions of what “a Greta Gerwig movie” is now that she’s become a bonafide writer/director in her own right with her enchanting solo directorial début Lady Bird.

The film stars Saoirse Ronan (Atonement, Byzantium, Brooklyn) as Christine, a high school senior at a Catholic girls' school in Sacramento who dreams of escaping to an East-coast college where she can find her true identity. In place of an authentically distinctive persona, she dyes her hair red and gives herself the nickname Lady Bird. She clashes with her parents and teachers, tries out a couple of boyfriends, experiments with the usual teenage pursuits, and forgoes her best friend in an attempt to ingratiate herself with the popular kids. Many of the events that make up the narrative of Lady Bird are the same we’ve seen in countless coming-of-age pictures. Many of Lady Bird’s character traits and the situations she finds herself in, match those we associate with roles Gerwig has played in her earlier films. But in tone, Lady Bird feels nothing like those earlier Greta Gerwig movies, nor does it play quiet like a typical coming-of-age picture. There is a sincerity to this film that surprises and delights. It’s funny, but by no means quirky, and, though most of the characters are in some kind of conflict with each other, there is no mean-spiritedness. No joke comes at the expense of any character, no situation builds to a heightened cinematic climax, and no set-up pays off in the expected way. The people that populate this picture, even those in an antagonistic relationship with Lady Bird, have a kind and forgiving nature.

The most difficult relationship in the film is between Lady Bird and her mother, Marion, played by the great Laurie Metcalf—founding member of the Steppenwolf Theater company, co-star of TV’s Roseanne, and occasional outstanding supporting player in movies like Desperately Seeking Susan, Pacific Heights, and JFK . Metcalf tears into this meaty role with all the passion and focus she brings to her stage work; conveying the deep frustration most mothers of self-absorbed teenagers feel defined by. She embodies the barely contained rage that emanates from parental love and the pain of having your child push you away with thoughtless, immature vehemence.  Ronan and Metcalf play off together with so much fire and honesty that you’d think their scenes would overpower the rest of the movie, but Gerwig assembles a supporting cast more than capable of making each interaction as compelling as the next. Actor/playwright Tracy Letts (Christine, Indignation, The Lovers) delivers yet another deft screen performance as Lady Bird’s weak but loving father, a role that could easily have felt like a cliché in the hands of a lesser talent. And as Lady Bird’s love interests, Lucas Hedges (Manchester by the Sea, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri) and Timothée Chalamet (Interstellar, Call Me by Your Name) bring humor and dimension to their brief but vital roles.

Gerwig has not only learned a great deal about writing and directing from her many talented collaborators of the past—she’s clearly gleaned how not to work from her experiences with less adept filmmakers. Like many other actors-turned-director, she seems motivated by the casts she assembles rather than by trying to prove what a cinematic visionary she is.  In this début feature each part comes across fully realized; each sequences feels mined for exactly the amount of material that can be extracted from it. The picture plays as autobiographical, but never self-conscious, slight, or distractingly personal. Lady Bird demonstrates the potential of Gerwig as a major voice in the future of cinema. I hope the Clint Eastwood comparison I made at the beginning of this review is also apt in that her career as a writer, director, producer, and actor will continue for many decades.