The Graduate (Mike Nichols, 1967)
A case of one generation literally CINECASTing over the next,
The Graduate is half farce, half satire, and there is an oddness and ambiguity at the core of this film that on some days probably makes it seem scarily prescient, and on others half-baked and rather calculated. This incongruity probably stems from the ferocious relentlessness of Bancroft's Mrs Robinson, who utterly dominates the first half, and the clever numbness and purity displayed by Hoffman's Benjamin. After the first half, the film teeters when Hoffman switches to Elaine (Katharine Ross), Mrs Robinson's daughter. From numbed passivity to a pursuing suitor, Hoffman's action seems to stem from impulsiveness, and the need to do
something. Rather than a generational break, or a radical departure from what has gone before, it seems to dawn on Benjamin that this sort of sh*t has been going on long, long before his generation. The bus drives on, but clearly he has no idea what he's gotten himself into.
It's a vibrant, zippy, calculated film though. Just when you get bored, or the narrative troughs, Nichols does something that enlivens the screen. The plasticky, nouveau vague goodness onscreen belies an essential lack of depth that none of the players can overcome. The sheen is there, and it's great, but I'm left a little like Benjamin at the end, wondering if I haven't been here before, and had a better time with someone else.