The multi-character ensemble structure and last-day-of-summer-for-a-group-of-high-schoolers set-up of writer-director David Robert Mitchell's riveting, remarkably assured feature debut The Myth of the American Sleepover (2011, David Robert Mitchell) may recall Richard Linklater's unforgettable Dazed and Confused, but Mitchell's stylistic approach doesn't really resemble the scruffy, Altman-esque satire clouded by bong smoke of Linklater's teen-movie touchstone. Instead, the potent blend of Mitchell's visually disciplined formalism and the subtle behavioral naturalism of his young cast make The Myth of the American Sleepover feel more akin to the gorgeous, emotionally sincere first two films of similarly tri-monikered writer-director David Gordon Green (George Washington and All the Real Girls) and to Peter Sollett's low-key charmer Raising Victor Vargas.
Like those preceding films, Sleepover is genuinely interested in depicting teenagers who fumble through their thoughts, desires, and regrets with believable awkwardness. These young characters are never armed with sitcom-ready quips to tease their peers with, and they're all the more compelling for that. And even more than Green or Sollett, Mitchell roots his portrait of adolescent longing in a largely undefined time and place, the better to relate the film to anyone of any age's experiences growing up. There are brief glimpses of a Michigan license plate and of a SpongeBob Squarepants doll, but those are the only signifiers of setting and era in a film that really could be taking place in any middle-class American suburb.
Mitchell and editor Julio Perez IV deftly weave back and forth between several teen characters' narrative threads so that each acquires an equal amount of dramatic weight. There's adventurous Maggie (Claire Sloma), who flirts with an older boy at a lakeside shindig; freshman Rob (Marlon Morton), who's determined to track down a blonde beauty he earlier semi-stalked at a grocery store; Scott (Brett Jacobsen), a college student pondering dropping out of his studies to remain closer to the twins (Nikita and Jade Ramsey) he harbored a joint crush on in high school; and Claudia (Amanda Bauer), who shakes up the girls' sleepover party after discovering (via a friend's diary entry!) that her boyfriend cheated on her.
The movie is driven by the palpable hormonal buzz of teenage erotic longing, which Mitchell renders with near-tangible force (the sweaty summer climate similarly seems to emanate from the screen). At the same time, Mitchell never stoops to the prurient sensationalism typical of director Larry Clark's (Kids) work, even when Rob braves a trip to a make-out maze shrouded in eerie darkness. But the overpowering sense of romantic and sexual yearning, along with Mitchell's keenly etched characterizations and the creamy, otherworldly visual glow that Mitchell creates with the assistance of director of photography James Laxton, makes Sleepover a uniquely tense and enveloping cinematic experience in spite of its modesty.
Reviews have wisely singled out the spunky Sloma (who gets a beguiling mid-film dance number all to herself) as a cast standout, but she's hardly the only one. Bauer makes the most out of Claudia's increasingly inebriated outrage, and Morton brings a surprising intensity to Rob's romantic ardor; he's like Ralph Fiennes trapped in the body of Anton Yelchin.
It's unfortunate that The Myth of the American Sleepover has yet to find much of an audience. It's likely that the gradually seductive pacing may be too demanding for young audiences weaned on teen movies fueled by gross-out gags and trendy pop songs, and the movie's honest enough to arrive at small-scale revelations instead of the grand statements some teen-targeted Hollywood fare aspires to. However, one would hope anyone lucky enough to catch this film will walk out of the theatre saying, "I've been there." Grade: A-
[FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm friends with the aforementioned editor, Julio, and I've been fortunate enough to chat with writer-director Mitchell on a few non-professionally-related occasions. I remember when talking with Mitchell at Julio's Memorial Day party this year, I was impressed that what he had seen theatrically that holiday weekend was Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life and Hitchcock's Vertigo, the latter of which screened at repertory theatre the Egyptian. It speaks well of a young filmmaker that this was his cinematic diet on a weekend where everybody seemed to be in a mad rush to see fucking The Hangover Part II. Now that I've finally seen Sleepover, I can attest to Mitchell's cineaste taste, and his in-person down-to-earth sincerity, translating successfully to the finished film. As with my Where the Road Meets the Sun review, take this review with whatever amount of salt you see fit.]
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