Teenage angst can feel like a

By Ryan Pocinich

Teenage angst can feel like a cyclical curse.

Bestowed with enough existential dread to induce one’s own catastrophic demise, the often rigid and burdensome expectations for who one should love, where one should work, and how one should carry out the monotony of daily life all land awkwardly on the shoulders of disinterested adolescents, who must then navigate the ostensibly outdated formalities of adulthood.

It seems as adults bypass this adolescent stage, most tend to lose their fervor for sociopolitical change and with it, their ability to effectively empathize with the concerns and attitudes of succeeding generations. But thankfully, angst finds an eternal home in the cinematic works of three visionary filmmakers, whose inventive approaches to depicting teenage malaise have garnered their films the honorable status of “cult classic”; except, in this case, the term “cult classic” doesn’t conjure up images of big-budget studio blockbusters marketing fresh smiling faces to mainstream audiences, but rather an exploration of taboo subject matter that goes unmentioned by parental figures hoping to remain shrouded in ignorance as to just what extreme catalysts teenagers choose to indulge in.

In 2001, writer-director Shunji Iwai debuted All About Lily Chou-Chou at the Toronto International Film Festival. Iwai’s film feels like a fever dream, employing an “elliptical narrative” format that experiments with a disjunctive scene structure. Simply put, this feature prioritizes the non-diegetic, allowing viewers to bask in the sonic decadence of this film’s shining element: its score.

Lily Chou-Chou is the fictional rock star worshipped by Iwai’s protagonists, Yūichi Hasumi and Shūsuke Hoshino. These boys cherish the escapism her music provides, seeking amity among online communities dedicated to the musician and her art. This grants their minds permission to wander far from the sinister yet familiar realities of the bullying, economic erosion, and parental conflicts plaguing their suburbia. Composed by Takeshi Kobayashi, Lily Chou-Chou’s soundtrack features vocals from Japanese singer Salyu, who assumes the role of Chou-Chou for Iwai’s narrative purpose. Her voice sounds calm and comforting, yet distant…a melancholy reminder that the only relationship Iwai’s characters have established with Chou-Chou exists in the digital sphere.

Iwai semi-predicted the mass cultural shift towards internet fanaticism most teenagers in the 21st century have taken some part in, whether consciously or not. With virtual communities serving as a substitute for face-to-face interaction in our post-pandemic society, dissociative practices among today’s youth eerily parallel the personalities present in this 2001 romance drama. Furthermore, Lily Chou-Chou’s internet fame is not bound by cinematic fantasy but finds itself fueling an IRL swath of online devotees who have fallen in love with Iwai’s sullen depiction of disaffected Japanese adolescence. It has proven that his creative message has been received by today’s generation of social media users who have cherished the ambiguity of growing older, a gentle reminder from Iwai that even adults are trying hard to not seem clueless about life’s definitive secrets.

All About Lily Chou-Chou (2001)

Ginger Snaps (2000)

At the 2000 Toronto International Film Festival, a year before All About Lily Chou-Chou made its North American debut, John Fawcett’s Ginger Snaps had its first domestic screening to an eager crowd of critics curious to unravel the soon-to-be monolith of the feminine horror genre. What they were met with was an unlikely coming-ofage tale of two sisters, Ginger and Bridgette, as they are forced to deal with the sharps pangs and unnatural proddings of puberty’s effect on their tight-knit relationship, made all the more enthralling by Ginger’s metamorphosis into a werewolf post-being bitten by a strange creature in a neighborhood playground. Drugs, sexual experimentation, and violence take center stage in Fawcett’s suburbian hellscape, designed with enough oblivious authority figures to turn any 16-yearold completely hysterical. In recent years, Ginger has become somewhat of a staple among the cinematic cool girls seen reposted on pop culture blog pages, often titled something along the lines of “5 Badass Women in Horror You Forgot About”, but this is not the extent to Ginger Snaps’ online presence.

In 2014, electronic punk musician Matt Stephenson released the studio album WLFGRL under the alias Machine Girl, which featured audio samples from Fawcett’s 2000 film. The album gained massive attention among important internet music cliques for its aggressive beats and bass-shattering production, a suitable sonic companion to the original film’s macabre themes. This project represented a modern genesis for Ginger Snaps, one that again draws focus to music as a bridge into contemporary relevance for films that can, to the untrained eye, be viewed as ultra-specific snapshots of inconsequential cultures. But to those who attempt to assign merit to Fawcett’s B-horror movie gimmicks, his holds much more significance to feeling understood through the secret language of filmmaking.

Nowhere by Gregg Araki is another film with music as an inspirational driving force; an L.A. punk nightmare dipped in a saturated aesthetic that rivals the distinct color schemes of more modern teen classics like Twilight (2008) and Thirteen (2003). But the blue-tinted scenes seen in the aforementioned films are a stark contrast to the bold colors characterizing Araki’s visual landscape. Araki is a pioneer of the New Queer Cinema movement of the early 90s, a term used to categorize the blossoming of independent filmmaking centered around LGBTQ+ narratives around this time. It makes logical sense for Araki to uncover the strange underbellies of subcultures fostered by the youth of Los Angeles considering his years spent studying at the USC School of Cinematic Arts. His 1997 black comedy follows a day in the life of Los Angeles’s most erotic and somber characters as they prepare to attend the “party of the year,” a common narrative trope for mainstream cinema. This is about the only semblance of normality found in Araki’s work, with aliens, sadistic movie stars, and LSD-induced midnight rendezvous quickly morphing this story into one that concludes at the commencement of the apocalypse.

Nowhere’s soundtrack features unique cuts from Radiohead, Hole, The Chemical Brothers, Lush, and other icons of 90’s alternative rock. But even more relevant than the impressive list of bands rounding out Nowhere’s sonic roster is the roster of 90s superstars making cameos in this film: Denise Richards, Christina Applegate, Mena Suvari, Rose McGowan, and Ryan Phillippe…all lead by the emo-heartthrob James Duvall. This cast could be a key ingredient to the cultural longevity Araki’s 25-year-old film has maintained with young audiences pining for a sweet release in his dramatic absurdism.

The L.A. punk influence in this film is a staple of Araki’s flair for the abrasive and illicit. He highlights the DIY element and experiential economy of this lifestyle, something drawing heavily from the existentialism expressed by brooding teens found in every corner of the world. It feels comforting that Araki depicts these people as emotionally complex beyond their obvious quirks, a reminder that there lies universality in the woes of teenagehood.

Nowhere (1997)