Accepting his directorial debut award from the National Board of Review in January, “internet comedian” turned film-maker Bo Burnham described his brilliantly empathetic first feature as “an attempt to represent the kids who live their lives online”; youngsters who have been “mischaracterised as self-obsessed, narcissistic, shallow”, but who are actually “self-conscious”.
Listed by Barack Obama as one of his favourite films of 2018, Eighth Grade has prompted much soul-searching discussion about the plight of “generation Z” – the post-millennials whom Burnham astutely identifies as having been “forced by a culture they did not create to be conscious of themselves at every moment”. Yet for all its razor-sharp cultural accuracy (it’s clearly made by a film-maker who has listened to his young subjects), the real genius of Eighth Grade is its universality – an honesty and compassion that cut across generational boundaries. As Burnham proves, if you get the specifics right, the generalities will take care of themselves.
Rising star Elsie Fisher is astonishingly natural as Kayla, a socially anxious 13-year-old approaching the end of middle school. Crushingly voted “most quiet” in class, Kayla struggles to connect with her peers in person, passing in silence through the corridors of her school. Yet Kayla has a second life online, where she posts cute selfies and self-help videos on “Being Yourself” and “Putting Yourself Out There”. Undeterred by the fact that no one is watching, this engaging soul seems to be using her vlog channel to talk to herself, like the time-capsule video message she buried a few years ago as “a gift to a future you”.
At home, Kayla plugs in earphones to shut out her single father Mark (Josh Hamilton), whose clumsily proud devotion to his daughter reminded me of Billy Burke’s lovely Charlie Swan character from the Twilight movies (a thumb pricked on a broken phone-screen signals a modern twist on a fairytale trope).
Mark thinks Kayla is a marvel and has every confidence that she can be part of the “cool” crowd she idolises from a distance. But even when a parental invitation to a pool party promises to open new doors, Kayla is faced with the terrifying prospect of finding herself out of her depth.
The theme of youthful isolation has long been a staple of coming-of-age movies, diversely explored in films as different as Catherine Hardwicke’s Thirteen, Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One In, Deniz Gamze Ergüven’s Mustang and, more recently, Deborah Haywood’s Pin Cushion or Jonah Hill’s Mid90s. It’s tempting to place Eighth Grade within a lineage of American high-school movies such as Mean Girls and The Breakfast Club (along with Obama, Molly Ringwald is another high-profile fan). Yet like all true coming-of-age classics – from Truffaut’s Les quatre cents coups to Céline Sciamma’s Bande de Filles/Girlhood and Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight – Burnham’s piercingly humanist movie makes the audience feel that what they are watching is personal to them, regardless of age, gender or nationality.
It’s also very funny, often unexpectedly so. Anyone who’s seen Burnham’s Repeat Stuff video (it’s on YouTube) will know that he’s adept at blending humour and horror, a facet showcased here during a school-shooting drill that morphs into a superbly cringey encounter with a creepy crush. Burnham and editor Jennifer Lilly understand the slapstick dynamics of long takes, hard cuts, parodic slow-mo and generate plenty of laughter amid the loneliness of this story. But they also know when to play it straight; a predatory scene with an older boy is made all the more powerful by its understatement, accentuating the insidious threat.
From the silent scream of her frown to the protective hunch of her shoulders, her face shrouded by her hair, Kayla’s story is eloquently told through Fisher’s perfectly nuanced physical performance. When she smiles, the radiant glow of her face is brighter than that of her iPhone screen. Crucially, Burnham finds both joy and kindness in this often dark environment, personified not only by Kayla’s unfailingly caring nature, but also by incidental characters such as Emily Robinson’s Olivia, who offers a glimpse of a happier future, and Jake Ryan’s Gabe, who features in one of the most upliftingly delightful movie scenes I have ever seen.
Underwriting it all is Anna Meredith’s mesmerising score, as intrinsically interwoven into the fabric of the film as Giorgio Moroder’s Oscar-winning electronic accompaniment to Midnight Express or Mica Levi’s unnerving sonic explorations for Under the Skin. From pulsing woozy disorientation to spiralling anxiety and transcendent aspiration, Meredith’s music strikes the perfect chord throughout, as thrillingly expressive and magically immersive as this wonderful film deserves.
