The last Ryan Family Film series of the academic year was a screening of Mike Nichols’ “The Graduate,” followed by Elaine May’s “The Heartbreak Kid.”
“The Graduate” may just be the quintessential coming-of-age film. It stars Dustin Hoffman as Benjamin Braddock, who returns home after graduation, drifting within the limbo of adolescence and adulthood. Existing in this strange purgatory, he begins an affair with one of his parents’ friends to facilitate, and perhaps delay, his delivery to the new world he suddenly finds himself a part of.
Surrounded by those interested only in the advancement of his career and his inauguration into the upper crust of southern California, Benjamin finds himself entering into a warped social contract in which he is expected to mask his self for the sake of capital. Fresh out of college and newly 21, Benjamin is terrified at the prospect of holding his breath forever.
The second part of the double feature was “The Heartbreak Kid,” a strange response to “The Graduate.” Lenny Cantrow, a Jewish man played by Charles Groudin, is transfixed by the world of blonde hair and blue eyes he discovers while on honeymoon with his wife in Miami. At the beginning of the film, we are shown Lenny’s humble wedding to a Jewish woman in the heart of New York City. Cantrow realizes the permanence of his wedlock when he realizes how entrenched he is in the tradition of inner-city Jewish life. He immediately becomes dissatisfied and spurns his new wife and everything she represents by chasing after the wealthy Kelly Corcoran, played by Cybill Shepherd. He starts to fabricate a new version of himself to join this new world that he is so attracted to, leaving his wife and former life in the dust.
By putting these two films in conversation with one another, we gain a great conceptual landscape of individuality and tradition. The films as companion pieces exist as sort of juxtapositions — Cantrow is born and raised in a very culturally rich environment, while Braddock exists in an environment devoid of any form of tradition, culture or even love. One film is the embracing of the self, individuality and passion, while the other is a scorning of all of these things in favor of the synthetic embrace of white American opulence. The two films thus weave alongside one another, with each serving as a foil of the other.
Despite what some fiction may have you believe, it is not that difficult to sell your soul. On the street corner of every university and affluent suburb is a Faustian pact waiting to be made. It is in the modern capitalist interest to make these deals, to forget your origins and integrate into a larger clique of forced smiles and firm handshakes.
The perspective from both directors is particularly salient here, coming from a Jewish background in mid-20th-century America, where they were undoubtedly pushed to forgo their identities to assimilate into a homogenized white Christian society. The films, it seems, are fraught with a deep frustration, displaying a jettisoned culture and identity in favor of socioeconomic advancement.
What I think these films show us is that not only can you forget your own locus of identity and purpose, but that it is easy to do so. Maybe a more optimistic view of this double feature, however, is that it is ultimately up to you whether you consign yourself to diving deep into the blue.
