KIDS (1995) - A Film Review

Kids (1995) is probably Larry Clarke's most infamous film, along with Ken Park (2004). It also marks the debut feature script of the prolific art-house outcast, who has a name that makes you want to punch him in the face, Harmony Korine; who also wrote Ken Park, however he is probably best known to the mainstream as "That guy who corn-rowed James Franco's hair" in 2013's Spring Breakers. 

Now, I say that this is Larry Clarke's most "infamous" film, but the truth he's never been completely liked as a filmmaker. Critics either see something of worth in his work or they call him a pedophile. Just look at the reviews for Kids; film critic Cole Smithey, of ColeSmithey.com, simply says, "Pedophillia, Pedophillia, Pedophillia..." Nicely put Cole. However, Janet Maslin of The New York Times says, "Frightening, frank and serious, a wake up call to the world..." But you're not here to read me comment on other critics critiquing a film from 1995; you're here because you were bored one night, found yourself wandering alone in the deepest darkest recess of the forgotten parts of the Internet, filled with failed wannabes and desperate hacks, a ran to nearest recognisable web-page URL and found my blog. But since you are here, I may as well give my opinion of this long-but-not-yet-forgotten indie flick. 

When people write Kids off as a voyeuristic and uncomfortable film, that dips its toes into the realms of "artistic" child-pornography, I can kinda see where they're coming from. However, I can't fully agree. As the film begins, we are introduced to our main character, scummy teen Telly (Leo Fitzpatrick). He is on a bed, in his underwear, trying to persuade a teenage girl -- who we are led to believe is a virgin and, as it is implied in the following scenes, is fresh into puberty -- into having sex with him. We then see them having sex. It's hard for me to talk about these scenes as you might be able to tell; they're important, but at the same time I fear talking about them in any great detail in fear of seeming to romanticise the acts themselves. As the film continues on we are introduced to Casper (Justin Pierce), Telly's druggy and equally as scummy teen friend and constant companion throughout the movie, and Jennie (Chloë Sevigny), who is trying to track Telly down throughout the day after she learns that she has contracted H.I.V, after only just loosing her virginity to Telly himself. The plot is loose, but in simple terms it follows two scummy friends (Telly & Casper) as one tries to deflower another virgin, whilst at the same time Jennie tries to warn Telly. 

Two things struck me in the first ten minutes of the film; 1. this is going to be one of those "frank" films and 2. Is it me, or can the lead actor no pronounciate no good, as if he's afraid of consonants, because wow it's distracting. Audio issues aside, which do get better as the film progresses, what I mean by one those "frank" films is this; this is going to be a film where they show all the sex scenes in detail and where the characters are all pretty dislikable and the filmmakers don't care because they see this as an accurate representation of what normal people are like. But the characters did not come off as realistic. They came off as the foul-mouthed worst nightmares of the elderly, who fear the youth and all innovation. Our two leads, Fitzpatrick & Pierce, do a fine job with the dialog and they do come off as naturalistic throughout the film, however, naturalistic and realistic are not the same things. 

But here's where my dual opinions on this film meet and clash. The characters are so dislikeable, so gross and foul, that they can't help but come off as deeply engaging. Like some sort of freak show attraction of the worst of suburban Americana. But yet, at the same time, they're so reprehensible, ugly and sick, that I didn't care if they succeeded or not, lived or died. Perhaps, however, this is one of the points of the film. It isn't about heroes and villains, just horrible people doing what horrible people do. Many have claimed that Kids is a film that talks down to the audience, tells them off; as if Clarke is scowling at us, telling us that free-sex is dangerous and that teenagers are all awful and inherently bad. But I don't see that. The film is too centred on these characters, never properly looking at the flip-side of life, to the adults. If it's a telling off, it's an affectionate telling off. Don't forget, Harmony Korine was eighteen at the time of writing the script and was chosen to do so by Clarke so the film could be written by an insider. It's too attached to it's characters to be a rant on the benile, evil youth. 

But the bigger issue critics have with this film is with it's approach to it's subject matter. Again, it's "frank." Heavy drug use and drinking is shown in all it's seedy, sweaty glory. People speak in the grossest of terms. Teenagers have sex and we see it. And yes, for the most part, these scenes are deeply uncomfortable, considering that the female characters are meant to young and all the actors themselves were in their teens as of filming. The camera goes in close, hovering over legs and torsos. Interestingly however, unlike the spiritual follow-up Ken Park, the film's use of nudity is incredibly limited. It doesn't feel like it is, but if you pay attention, little nudity is seen. Perhaps a few breasts can be seen through wetted bras and through the act of breast-feeding, but in the sex scenes there is none. Perhaps this is for legal reasons, or perhaps this is just simply a sign of restraint on behalf of Clarke. The audience knows that these are young teenagers who are meant to be having sex, we don't need to go overboard. Perhaps it is the case of we, the audience, are uncomfortable enough being voyeurs, we do not need to become complicent in the act as well. However, while I found this approach to surprisingly tame, I can still see the point where many critics approach this film from.

There are a few shots that unnecessarily focus on the leg's of the teenage girls, even when they're not meant to be seen in a sexual context. There is one sex scene towards the end of the film that is purposely uncomfortable, but that being said I still feel as if it stills goes on for too long. However, is this pedophillic? No. The sex scenes are uncomfortable, not arousing. The floating camera style, the close-ups are not intended to arouse, but to make us feel as if we shouldn't be here. The acts are too sweaty, too grimey, too in your face to be sexual. An ultimately that's how I feel about this film. Kids is too purposely ugly, purposely gross and uncomfortable for it's own good. I more admired it for what it attempted to achieve, not for it's final form. 

If I were pressed to give a rating, I would give this film a 3/5. It's an important film to watch for any film-lover and it's worth seeing just because of the conversations surrounding it, but you won't necessarily like it. 

Dear Sir...

You stand in a public fountain; your dick-vest with a mock-1950's advert for a vacation to Hawaii hangs loosely on your torso, your skinny jeans rolled up and your long hair tied up into a ponytail, no doubt with a plated shoestring you found on the street and now insist on wearing because it adds to your "quirky character". Oh yes, and let's not forget the bead wristbands that rest on your wrists, just to really nail in the fact that you are, indeed, a fuck. But what of the pose you strike? The mock-camp look of disapproval; hands held up to your chest, one turned upwards to it's side and bent back at the wrist, fingers curled into the centre of the palm. Fuck you.

There's something about you, something I don't like. Something insidious, dormant whilst waiting to explode. But all these feelings of anger and rage, that you boil up in me, can only seem to express themselves in the words of "Fuck" and "You". Maybe it's the fact that in every single bloody photo you have to pull a stupid face, 'cause you're a dick - see, my hatred can be no more eloquent than a cheap-shot curse word. Maybe it's the fact that, while I have yet to meet you in person, you stink of someone who "Doesn't give a fuck..." and is "Effortlessly cool...", disregarding the fact that you clearly spend two hours a morning perfectly trimming your thick black beard of hate in order to get it juuuuust right. Cunt. Yes, I am yet to meet you, but I've got you sussed out perfectly. I know you better than your mum knows the back side of your infantile ass. 

Let me take a wild guess and say that you're what's known as a "character". A person who is recalled with affection and a wry smile. The life and soul of a party, a real extrovert. The problem is, these parties aren't sophisticated, nor are they really parties. They're more social drinking experiments; they could be scientific experiments all with their own special titles such as, "How drunk can I get before calling the paramedics?" and "What happens when I've ingested nearly two litres of vodka and decide to set my sweaty pubes on fire?" Not that parties have to be sophisticated, nor do they have to be more than a collection of drinking games and brief-dance breaks, but if they're happening every Friday night are they anything more than weekly AA meetings that tackle the issue of relapsing each session. You're not the life and soul of the party because you're actually an interesting person. No, no, no, sir that would be giving you too much credit. You're just loud. You weren't told to shut the fuck up by your parents as a kid, so your hyperactive tendencies to show off and do stupid, dick things blossomed as you went through your teenage years. Factor in the brand new, teenage discovery of alcohol and you've got your "character" right there; a loud-mouthed, hyperactive alcoholic. 

But wait, that's not all! There's another side to you, the lit-cigarette-on-the-tip-of-lip sporting, sitting-on-the-grass-with-your-guitar posing, floppy haired, sunglasses wearing tit-cocking-twat. Whilst your friends sit in a circle in the park, passing round that one bottle of W.K.D, you sit there, hunched over your stringed instrument that acts as a replacement for your personality, quietly strumming away at the same Oasis song for the four hours you and your dick friends hang out for. You think this is coming from the top of my head? I have photographic evidence matey. Unfortunately, if I were to post these pictures I could get me into some serious shit, but believe when I say that everything I describe you as is based on fact, not fiction... well, partly if you count bias informed fact to be somewhat tainted by the very bias that has informed it to be fiction. You're a fake. A poser. A dick who's just as likely to suck the dick of the 90's nostalgia fest, as you are to the suck the dick of your own reflection. 

But the thing I think I hate most about you, the thing that makes me despise you with every fibre of my living and breathing being, is the fact that you are better than me. You have more friends. You understand how people work better than me. You've probably had several girlfriends, maybe even a couple of boyfriends -- because I don't know how the fuck you work. You're happy, content. It's the simple things in life that make you giddy. People like you. They want to hang out with you, not just Skype you whilst playing GTA V... Kafar. You're moderately attractive, presentable in your hipster-chic attire. Your attention seeking attempts seem to work. You are the life and soul of the party, whether it's the alcohol that enables you to be that or just the fact that you are a colossal shit. You're exciting. Energetic. You've lived through the teenage experience, a claim I wish I could make myself. You have memories to share, moments to recall with fondness. I have my room, a packet of weird Turkish cheese balls and the burning light of my laptop against the darkness of my room. And you know the real salt in my wounds? In ten-years-time, you'll still be content and you'll be moderately successful. Even if I'm successful as well, you'll still have one leg up on me. And that is the real dagger to my chest. But you know what? Fuck you. If I woke and saw I had became you in some Freaky Friday fuck up, I'd kill myself quicker than you could say "Nipple-headed-tit-wanker." 

"For all that is wrong with the world, Blame Toby..."