Bo Burnham's Eighth Grade is a work of cinematic portraiture; its subject is Kayla Day. It takes place during one of the more difficult parts of Kayla’s young life—not for any particulars, but for the universal terribleness that is the middle school experience. From the very beginning, we are immersed in a world of rubber bands on braces and stacked Crayola markers, one of prerecorded sex-ed classes and terrible brass renditions of “The Star Spangled Banner,” of overwhelming waves of hormones and uncontrollable acne.
Burnham’s direction is critical in creating this experience. The soundtrack and mix bring us into Kayla’s world as music rises and falls with the proximity of her pink iPhone earbuds. The camera is also well-employed as it alters between hovering over Kayla (literally bringing us into her world and we Steadicam with her) and locking its gaze upon her (forcing us to recognize the girl that would otherwise disappear in such scenes). As an example of both, consider a pool party celebrating the birthday of one of the most popular girls in Kayla’s class (Catherine Oliviere). Kayla sneaks into the scene late, after all the other kids have ventured off into selfie sessions and watergun fights. She tiptoes down to the pool and settles in a corner where she feels safe and unnoticed—only half-conversing with the birthday girl’s obligatorily invited (and compulsively handstanding) cousin, Gabe. When it’s time to open presents, everyone gathers round the birthday girl and oohs and ahhs over each fashionable gift. But Kayla’s—a card game, kind of like Go Fish, but like, more fun—falls on quiet contempt. We stay with Kayla as the scene continues on without her. She might feel invisible, but Burnham’s camera refuses to let it be.
If not clear by now, I should say that fifteen-year-old Elsie Fisher is marvelous as Kayla. All the likes and umms of Burnham’s script flow effortlessly from her practiced lips, but all the more impressive is the way she communicates in quiet moments. This is the work of fine artistry—no juvenile qualifiers needed. Fisher’s the real deal—not effectively achieving the demands of a narrow script (as is often the case with child performances), but fully realizing the complexities of adolescent being as framed by Burnham’s screenplay.
And how about the complexities of the modern adolescent experience? Gone are the days of squawking modems and anxious fingers pecking out grammarless lines in MSN Messenger on the family desktop. In its place: essentially more of the same, just written with fast thumbs in an app, on a phone, from the comforts of the teen’s own bedroom. Burnham conveys the sacred practice with a montage of artificial light and sleepless eyes—like Kayla, effortlessly dissolving from one social media platform to the next. And by the time it’s through, I wonder: how could any parent (hell, could any millennial?) be expected to keep up?
Kayla’s single father certainly has his struggles, though not for lack of trying. Though it often seems like an unknowable entity sits across from him at the dinner table and in his car, his love for Kayla is unmistakable. Eventually, Kayla will recognize it too. That said, he is not some angelic, sweep-him-up-before-he-gets-taken hunk of a single parent. Veteran actor Josh Hamilton brings an everyman fallibility to the role, using his somewhat limited screen time to create more depth of character than a lesser actor would manage. It’s a little thing, but the film is better for it.
Ah but this is Kayla’s movie, so how about another YouTube vlog to remind us? Burnham frames the picture with these pixelated tutorials on such topics as self-esteem and putting yourself out there—diary entries for Kayla as much as they are advice for others. And I wonder how much of a personal touch the pre-recording countdown beeps are to the writer-director, who himself rose to fame as a YouTube star. They recur throughout the film, queuing us for another vlog entry and clever revelation of character. Often Burnham contrasts the words of Kayla’s recordings with the action on screen. In the aforementioned pool party sequence, for example, Kayla espouses the benefits of putting yourself out there and makes reference to “that one awkward girl” while we can clearly see that here, she is that girl. But ultimately, the effect seems mixed. While many in my audience laughed freely, I struggled with it. Surely the world has enough bullies, and what would this laugh—one quite certainly directed at Kayla—make me?
With the exception of those few tough laughs, there’s little doubt about what the director was going for with this film: conveying the awkwardness and uncomfort that define the middle school experience. Perfectly misplaced touches of it dot the picture like a face full of zits, but one scene in particular stands out for the way it rides that feeling of discomfort through some potentially dark territory. One can’t help but think of the #MeToo movement and where it all begins. Thankfully, both Kayla and her male scenemate escape with their humanity, and the film lightens all the way to it’s heartwarming conclusion, one in which a self-described “friend hangout” between Kayla and Gabe reminds us of an ever-important lesson: it’s OK to be awkward. After all, it’s eighth grade.
