The title of Nanette
Burstein's documentary American Teen sounds like an absurd generalization, more so
when the movie itself turns out to be about high-school students in small-town
Indiana, which could never be called a diverse cross-section of the country's
youth. Things get even broader when Burstein introduces her four main subjects,
who are instantly broken down into Breakfast Club types: The Popular Girl,
The Jock, The Nerd, The Rebel. As such, the film will inevitably be
misunderstood as a sweeping statement on teenage life, when Burstein really
means to explore the relationship between these labels and the complicated
individuals who fall under them. Though it's compelling enough as soap opera, American
Teen digs
deeply into why kids grudgingly accept the roles they've been given and the
brutal consequences that come with straying outside the lines.
Though a few supporting
players slip in and out of the storylines, Burstein primarily follows four
seniors at various spots in the caste system. The piranha at the top of the
food chain is Megan, a popular girl who relishes her queen-bee cruelty at
times, but is haunted at others over college pressure and a family tragedy.
Basketball star Colin deals with the heavy expectations of leading the team and
standing out to recruiters, two goals that put him at cross-purposes. Socially
awkward band geek Jake gets the brush-off from most of his classmates, but that
doesn't stop the intrepid romantic from pursuing girls. Then there's the
loveable, free-spirited Hannah, who longs to live in San Francisco and go to
film school, but is meanwhile stuck in a conservative place where she doesn't
fit in.
Time and again throughout American
Teen, the
subjects try to take chances and explore the world outside their assigned
stations, only to be knocked back for it. When a popular guy named Mitch takes
a liking to Hannah, he gets nudged and teased for it, and winds up retreating
cravenly to his clique in spite of the evident pleasure he takes in her
company. As American Teen plumbs further into these kids' lives, it serves
as a bracing reminder of how hard those years can be, and how intensely
17-year-olds can succumb to love and rejection. In form, it's admittedly slick
and packaged, with a commercial feel that owes as much to reality television as
it does to Frederick Wiseman. But in content, it's easy for anyone who survived
(or is surviving) high school to feel twinges of identification.