Rain is a waterfall against the windows of the double doors, and Annie Lennox’s version of “Don’t Let it Bring Your Down” streams softly from surround-sound speakers as iridescent street globes cast soft light through the windows on a blonde body lying on a pillowy sofa while two masculine hands remove her black pants and begin to unbutton her white blouse to expose her juvenile body. As the blonde’s top is drawn open, the camera moves directly overhead to quell the eroticism of the scene by capturing two perfectly round nipples lying flat against a chest with hardly any shadow to create the illusion of full breasts. At this moment, our gaze is focused on a child, and Lester Burnham has the choice of being demonized or redeemed. Choosing not to act, Lester redeems himself in the eyes of the audience, but the pedophilic demon lurks, and it is with these paradoxical moments that Sam Mendes has fashioned a film that masks subtextual reality by conveying a palatable ideal.
The content of American Beauty is not original. Nabokov and, subsequently, Kubrick tackled an older man’s infatuation with a nymphet. Carolyn Burnham’s character, although magnificently portrayed by Annette Bening, is one of a dozen variations of male or female aesthetes who have become socially detached consumers focused solely on the procurement of commodity and status. Likewise, Colonel Frank Fitts is the clichéd, self-loathing bigot who would rather risk death than be exposed as something socially taboo. What draws us to these characters is that Mendes does a fine job of creating the illusion that these traits are eradicable and happiness is attainable. I don’t mean to imply that happiness is a lost commodity in life; though, the way happiness is portrayed in American Beauty, it reeks of futility. This futility is exemplified by Ricky Fitts, the solemn protagonist who serves as the impetus for this illusion. Essentially, Ricky is the cue ball for the inter-social actions of the ostensibly detached characters. He brings Lester out of his proletariat stupor by offering a few drags off a joint and blatantly quitting his job without any fear of repercussion. Subsequently, Lester quits his job, extorts his boss for sixty thousand dollars, and takes up weight-lifting and pot-smoking in the garage to the dismay of his wife, who in turn acts out by sleeping with Buddy Kane, the Real Estate King. Likewise, Ricky’s voyeurism is inferred as a homosexually pornographic hobby when Frank Fitts, his father, sneaks into Ricky’s room and finds a video of Lester Burnham lifting weights naked, which ultimately creates the final conflict between Frank and Ricky and compels Ricky to gather his things and move to New York. This fallout also fosters a sense of loss and regret within Frank, who acts on his latent homosexuality by approaching Lester, who rejects Frank, leaving him lost, ashamed, and desperate; thus, Lester must be murdered.
Ricky is a sufficient agent of influence because he offers a tangential reality to a person like Lester Burham who is “masking [his] contempt for the assholes in charge.” Even though this reality is tangential, it is hardly tangible because it is unrealistic. While Ricky provides the façade of a liberated individual, and is an independently wealthy figure who earns money by distributing high-end marijuana, it needs to be noted that he is able to carry on this air of confidence and liberation because he is a teenager and exists on a social plain that has a paucity of responsibility. Mendes and Alan Ball, the screenwriter, do not attempt to distract us from the fact that Ricky is a teenager; in fact, one of the most famous scenes from American Beauty clearly conveys this teenage idealism. As Jane and Ricky watch the film of the white plastic bag tossing about in the breeze, Ricky describes it as “a little kid begging me to play with it for fifteen minutes.” In itself, this line illustrates Ricky as a charismatic, brooding individual who is fascinated with the beauty in all things, but at the same time, the ability and time required to record inconsequential events is a luxury that a teenager possesses and the average adult does not, or as Gary Hentzi suggests about the scene, “it really is the kind of thing that a teenage aesthete might consider ‘deep’.”1 While “deep” comes across a bit sarcastically, the assessment is quite accurate, and I wouldn’t suggest that it lessens the story; instead, this scene forces the audience to adopt a teenage mentality and become a voyeur for a moment when nothing else matters but the bag tossing on the screen. This manipulative technique invites the audience into the façade and, for a moment, fashions Ricky as our “personal hero” who has the freedom to peruse everything he comes across and re-imagine everything as being controlled by “this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know that there was no reason to be afraid.” In turn, this forces us to reconnect with our inner idealists and offers a respite from the rest of the characters who are controlled by the maintenance of social class, corporate scheduling, and paranoia.
In the same vein, Ricky conveys an air of confidence that the other characters lack, which is a primary reason that Jane Burnham is attracted to him inasmuch as he represents everything that her father does not. Ricky is imagined as less of a boyfriend and more of a father-figure who can provide Jane with the needed “structure and fucking discipline.” While this line is delivered somewhat jokingly, it appears in the middle of a heartfelt conversation between Ricky and Jane, who feels resentment toward her father who has “this crush on my best friend Angela,” while Jane feels that she is not “anywhere near as important to him as [Angela] is.” Here, Ricky functions as Lester’s opposite in that Jane seeks “a father who’s a role model, not some horny geek boy who’s going to spray his shorts whenever I bring a girlfriend home from school” whereas Ricky indicts Angela as ugly, “boring and […] totally ordinary.” This being said, the relationship between Jane and Ricky is imagined as a product of external factors, and not the genuine connection of two wayward “freaks” that is suggested. While we want to root for the romance because it appears the only laudable one in the film, it is futile in that their plan to abscond to New York will ultimately impede their ability to exist as they do now. In other words, New York will break the shell of confidence that is afforded by the shield of adolescence. More than likely, they will not live rent free, and while it is apparent that Ricky has adequate start-up money from his marijuana distribution business, forty thousand dollars does not provide a wealth of time in a major metropolis. While I’m sure that he will find an ample number of customers in New York City, he now has to factor in competition that was non-existent in suburbia. Likewise, as Angela points out before storming out of the room to seduce Lester, “you’re just a kid!” which speaks to the disadvantage of being an adolescent without the minimum of a high school education; this is problematic, as is attempting to enroll in a new high school without a parent or guardian. Therefore, what we are left with are two idealistic teenagers who will exist on a plateau of adolescence. While breaking away from all that is familiar in a fit of freedom may be interpreted as a way to achieve happiness, American Beauty simultaneously illustrates that adolescence as an adult leads to one’s demise.
Ostensibly, Lester is murdered because he rejects Colonel Frank Fitts’ homosexual advances; however, at the same time, his murder functions as an allegory to those who take a voluntary step backward in a society that emphasizes social progression. In other words, Lester chooses to smoke pot, pursue juvenile women, and become a fast food cook in order to recreate a teenage summer when “all [he] did was party and get laid”; while these choices lead Lester on a journey of self-exploration and helps elicit an “I’m great” when asked how he is before the final scene, these regressive choices ultimately lead him into a misunderstanding that results in his death. While the wide smile before Lester’s death whitewashes his pedophilic desires and endears us to him as we see his final moments spent in contentment, he is a signifier of happiness that exists outside of a life of arrested development; however, the bullet that rips through Lester’s head renders the signifier as brief moment trapped in a shroud of impossibility. Thus, if the procurement of happiness through unconventional means renders you a social apostate, then this similarly does not bode well for Ricky Fitts because of his destiny to remain an ideological adolescent, and because of his occupation. Discussing Ricky’s drug distribution business on ethical grounds is irrelevant, but the privilege that his business provides fosters an interesting social discourse. The occupation itself offers freedom of movement as there is no desk, boss, or set of quotas, etc. At the same time, his business is inherently limited. First and foremost, Ricky is the entrepreneur of an illegal business, which in itself generates commentary on the logistics of finding freedom and happiness in a legitimate enterprise. Of the two characters we meet who are in legitimate businesses, Lester Burnham’s apathy has already been discussed while Carolyn Burnham pitches a masochistic fit when she is unable to sell a house. Secondly, since we view Ricky as a charismatic, ideological teenager, the thought of him as a thirty-five year old drug dealer does not immediately enter our thoughts, though his lack of formal education portends this scenario.
So, despite American Beauty’s tagline: “look closer,” why don’t we see the futility of the happiness and freedom that seethes from Ricky Fitts? Because Lester’s crimson blood pops against the white table and a faint smile is seen on Lester’s face from his realization that Jane and the pre-consumerized Carolyn are his reasons for living. Similarly, this occurs directly after Lester chooses not to violate his daughter’s teenage friend, which fosters a sense of admiration within us that occludes the licentious old man, and illustrates a father figure, even if it is to someone else’s daughter. Finally, it is here that Mendes shines as a filmmaker because I don’t believe he is unaware of Fitts’ futility, though I think the irony is often lost as the audience is touched by Lester’s demise more so that the prophecy it suggests: Ricky will ultimately embody one of the two versions of Lester Burnham: death or discontentment. While watching American Beauty, we should keep in mind a bit of advice that Ricky offers Lester: “Never underestimate the power of denial.”
1Hentzi, Gary. Film Quarterly. 54.2 (2000): 46-50.
