From PG-13 to NC-17: Coming-of-Age in Film

How We Grew Up According to the Big Screen

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SPOILERS FOR THE FOLLOWING MOVIES: Good Boys, Rebel Without a Cause, Dope, Okja, Jojo Rabbit, and Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

When I learned that Seth Rogen had produced Good Boys, a 2019 comedy directed by Gene Stupnitsky, I expected the usual barrage of immature characters practicing their inappropriate humor. What I got instead was a relatable, eye-opening narrative about how people can grow apart as they grow up. The film follows three best friends, Max, Thor, and Lucas, as they try to answer the most pivotal question any pre-teen boy can ask—how do you kiss a girl?

Life is hectic in middle school as the boys deal with their own set of problems. Max is invited to a kissing party where he hopes to ask out his crush, Brixlee; Thor wants to be a singer, but he’s afraid that his classmates will judge him for it; and Lucas has to find a way to cope with his parent’s divorce (Eisenberg, Goldberg, Rogen, & Weaver, 2019). How each character approaches their problem throughout the film shapes their personalities to the extent that they become very different people. The end result is one where the boys are constantly clashing with each other until they realize that they’re better off not being friends.

The beauty of Good Boys is the fact that I was able to see so much of myself in those three sixth graders. I first watched the film with five of my closest friends from high school. We were all going off to different colleges, but we promised ourselves that we wouldn’t let our friendship fall apart. It was the same commitment that Max, Thor, and Lucas implicitly made. And, of course, like their friendship, ours fell apart. Shortly after we got adjusted to our new lives in college, we stopped texting each other as much. Suddenly, we had new interests and people in our lives to manage. Our days of hanging out in the city were behind us. In the following months, where I lost touch with most of my friends, I realized the same thing that Max, Thor, and Lucas did—letting go of some friendships was an inevitable part of growing up.

Good Boys excels because it presents the audience with a harsh reality—one that many people must face themselves before they become an adult. I suspect that I am not the only one who was struck by the film’s blunt yet heartwarming approach on the matter. Needless to say, there are various films that wrestle with similar themes of growing up. And with millions of people going to the movie theater every year (Zara, 2017), the importance of these films has never been higher. All of this begs the questions: how have films represented the coming-of-age experience throughout history and what impact can they have on the youth?

Like any other time when you’re confronted with a long list of works, it’s best to start at the beginning. The coming-of-age genre of films was first popularized by 1955’s classic hit, Rebel Without a Cause, directed by Nicholas Ray. The story follows Jim Stark—beautifully portrayed by the iconic James Dean—as he attends a new school after moving to a new town. You could say that Jim is a troubled teenager. After all, the first substantial scene in the film is of Jim being detained in a police station due to public drinking. It’s easy to write him off as another pretentious teenager from an upper-class family, but we slowly learn why that isn’t the case.

Jim’s best qualities are demonstrated in the very same scene. Take, for example, the instance where Jim meets John “Plato” Crawford, another troubled teen. Plato is shivering as he sits and waits for the cops to release him. Without even knowing who he is, Jim offers to give Plato his jacket (Weisbart, 1955). In a moment of sincerity, Jim shows kindness to the person who needs it the most. Juxtapose this with his actions during the rest of the scene where he blatantly disrespects the cops, and Jim’s character becomes transparent. He’s a boy willing to help those like himself while not giving authority figures a second thought. It’s not the fact that he’s nice but the fact that he shows sympathy to people in similar situations.

When Jim’s parents arrive at the precinct, we get a taste of his problems. Jim’s dad immediately underplays the severity of Jim’s actions in an attempt to convince the police officer to let him go (Weisbart, 1955). This hints at the root cause of Jim’s troubles—his parents always come to his rescue. How can that be a bad thing? It’s simple. A large part of growing up is dealing with the consequences of your actions. My personality is shaped by all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. It’s how we all grow as people. By shielding Jim from that, his parents are depriving him of a chance at growth. This becomes more prevalent when we later find out the reason behind why Jim is new in town. It turns out that Jim’s parents keep moving to different places every time he gets in trouble with the local authorities (Weisbart, 1955) effectively preventing him from facing the consequences of his actions. But Jim, being the person he is, refuses to settle for that, so he actively seeks out trouble in an attempt to rebel against his parents’ wishes.

This plays into the bigger picture for Jim. Because his parents never allowed him to live his life, he has no sense of who he is. He’s tired of his parents' constant bickering—”you’re tearing me apart,” he screams at them (Weisbart, 1955)—which goes to show how he has no one in his life to turn to. I know the feeling all too well. Growing up, it felt like my parents constantly argued. I was too young to recall what they argued about specifically, but I felt the toll regardless. It’s the same toll that Jim feels. Surrounded by loved ones, he feels lost and alone.

This theme is reinforced when we meet Judy, the girl that Jim falls for when he moves into town. Like Jim, Judy’s problems stem from her parents, specifically her father. She’s at the age where it’s not appropriate for a girl to do things like kiss her father. To Judy, this is heartbreaking. She refuses to accept the fact that her heartfelt connection with her father is ruined just because she’s too old. To fight back against this, she begins to disobey her parents which only makes her connection with her dad worse. It’s a cycle that causes Judy to lose her sense of identity.

We see Plato, Jim’s best friend, go through something similar throughout the movie. When he’s first introduced in the precinct scene, he stares at nothing in particular—seemingly lost in his own world. The police officer asks him why he killed a litter of puppies, but he’s unresponsive (Weisbart, 1955). This disoriented attitude is replaced by a much warmer one when Plato meets Jim at school. As a kid who usually gets bullied by the popular kids, Plato is ecstatic to become friends with Jim. I always had trouble connecting with people myself, so I understand why Plato was so excited. It feels like a stroke of pure luck when you find one person who understands you in a sea of people who don’t. It’s also worth mentioning that Sal Mineo, the actor who plays Plato, believed the character was the first gay teenager ever to be shown on film (Brathwaite, 2014). This may explain why Plato was seen as an outcast by his peers. Regardless, he built a special relationship with Jim which proved to be just the thing he needed to change his attitude for the better. This makes his fate all the more tragic as, in a moment of sudden cruelty, he dies at the hand of the police (Weisbart, 1955). His shooting is the result of a misunderstanding which is ironic considering he finally met some people, Jim and Judy, who understood him. Maybe this is Ray’s way of telling us that even in our most comfortable moments—when we feel like we’re fully confident in who we are—everything can still change. Growing up isn’t about reaching an ideal version of yourself; it’s a process where you slowly learn more about yourself.

When all is said and done, the remarkable nature of Rebel lies in the legacy it leaves behind. Between defining the modern conception of teenagers and inspiring a cultural movement, the film’s effect on the youth is like no other (Levy, 2005). James Dean became an idol for the American youth. And why shouldn’t he? He represented the conflicting ideas that many teenagers wrestled with in America post World War II. On one hand, they were being told how to dress, talk, and behave by their parents. On the other, they were introduced to sex, rock’n’roll, and other forms of self-expression that were met with disapproval from adults (McNearney, 2018). This discrepancy in values could be chalked up to the fact that adults and teenagers had wholly different priorities at the time. For adults, America had exited one of the most dangerous periods in the country’s history, so of course they would hold on to the conventional values of society. It was another way of expressing how proud they were to be American. Teenagers, however, wanted nothing to do with that. They couldn’t care about dress codes anymore than they could care about a war that had already ended. And Dean’s portrayal of a rebellious Jim Stark exemplified this attitude for all of America to see. What resulted was nothing short of a movement where teens developed their own sense of identity—one that gave them a purpose unlike anything their parents could’ve provided at the time.

Over half a century later, the coming-of-age genre is still alive and kicking. But that doesn’t mean everything has stayed the same. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Films have broadened their scope to include a variety of new perspectives that previously went unnoticed. A prime example of this is Dope, a 2015 comedy directed by Rick Famiyuwa. The film follows Malcolm Adekanbi, a self-proclaimed geek applying to college, as he learns how dangerous the streets of Inglewood, California can get.

By all accounts, Malcolm is a good kid. He’s a straight-A student—his dream school is Harvard—who spends his free time making music with his two best friends, Jib and Diggy. All of them are obsessed with ‘90s hip-hop which is why they label themselves as geeks. As they ride their bikes home from school one day, they run into a gang of Bloods filming a music video causing Malcolm and his friends to make a detour from their usual route (Bongiovi & Whitaker, 2015). There’s a lot to unpack about gang violence in the streets of California’s low-income neighborhoods, but Famiyuwa breaks it down with this one scene. There’s a lot of negative influences surrounding Malcolm and his friends as they grow up, but they’ve managed to navigate—both literally and figuratively—around them. The dichotomy between the two lifestyles is at the heart of the film, but it’s far from black and white. In fact, there’s lots of gray areas, and this is where the majority of Dope operates.

Enter Dom, a local drug dealer who stops Malcolm as he continues to bike home. Confidently played by A$AP Rocky, Dom’s charm is immediately noticeable. Stereotypically, a drug dealer is considered aggressive and even dangerous, but Dom is not initially portrayed that way. He’s friendly towards Malcolm, and they immediately strike a conversation about the golden era of hip-hop as Dom surprisingly knows a lot about the culture behind the music. But this warm attitude doesn’t last. Later on, we see Dom at a party beating up one of his security guards for disobeying his orders. As Dom explains it, if he didn’t punish that kind of behavior, there would be a “slippery slope.” When his friends don’t understand what he means, he has to slowly explain the term to them and why it’s relevant to the situation at hand (Bongiovi & Whitaker, 2015). Clearly, there’s something special about Dom. Although he’s living a completely different lifestyle, he seems to have some similarities with Malcolm in terms of being educated. This is proven to be the case again when Dom scrutinizes one of his friends for liking Obama’s drone strikes. He points out how Americans died in some of those same drone strikes, and he fears bombs dropping on Inglewood when America decided that black people are the terrorists. Although his knowledge is still limited—“this shit started somewhere like Pakistan” he claims when talking about drone strikes (Bongiovi & Whitaker, 2015)—it’s obvious he’s more intelligent than the people he surrounds himself with. And the reason behind his depth of knowledge is explained during a pivotal part of the film.

After a shootout occurs at the same party, Dom places copious amounts of ecstasy in Malcolm’s bag without his knowledge, and he tells Malcolm to run. Eventually, Malcolm figures out what happened and freaks out. As a kid avoiding everything to do with the “other” lifestyle, it’s nothing short of a worst-case scenario for him. He regains his composure when Dom calls him from jail and asks him to deliver the bag of drugs to a man named AJ (Bongiovi & Whitaker, 2015). But he has other priorities to attend to as well.

When Malcolm meets the Harvard alumni—who lived in Inglewood as a child just like Malcolm— for his college interview, he’s visibly nervous. Of course, college interviews are stressful, but that’s not why he’s anxious. As he waits for his interviewer in an office, Malcolm notices a picture of Dom in the corner. And a second later, his interviewer walks in (Bongiovi & Whitaker, 2015). Just like that everything clicks together. His interviewer is AJ—the man he’s supposed to deliver the drugs to. Suddenly, the pieces are falling into place in Malcolm’s head. AJ and Dom were friends when they grew up in Inglewood, and they clearly kept in touch. Famiyuwa brilliantly used Dom’s personality—and knowledge—as a way to subtly hint at this reveal. In doing so, he materializes Malcolm’s fears right in front of his eyes. AJ and Dom lived two very different lives, but they still arrived at the same end. For Malcolm, it meant that all his efforts in trying to get out of Inglewood would never work no matter how successful he became.

AJ tasks Malcolm with selling the drugs himself and bringing back the money if he wants to have a good shot at Harvard. The rest of the film follows Malcolm and his friends as they sell ecstasy out of the school’s chemistry lab (Bongiovi & Whitaker, 2015). Needless to say, they’re faced with making a lot of questionable choices in which there is no right answer. Perhaps this is best demonstrated by a scene towards the end of the film where the school bullies run up on Malcolm at night and steal a bag filled with drug money. While they laugh at him and bask at their new-found fortune, Malcolm does the unthinkable. He pulls out a gun. Everyone is silent. With his voice just as shaky as his hands, he says “please, just give me the bag” (Bongiovi & Whitaker, 2015). It’s one of many moments where someone forces Malcom to do something he otherwise would not. And every time he does, he loses a part of himself. Malcolm’s journey is not one where he tries to find himself but one where he tries to hold on to the person he is.

Unlike Jim Stark, Malcolm Adekanbi will not find his place in the world. At least, not in any world that’s to be found on the streets of Inglewood. He’s made his own path, one that follows neither lifestyle laid out for him previously. He’s neither geek nor gangster. I’ve met many people who try to put others into certain categories, so they can easily make assumptions about who those other people are. Sometimes, I catch myself doing the same thing and have to make the conscious effort to stop. In reality, people are very different from the arbitrary boxes that others place them in. At the end of the film, Malcolm pens his essay to Harvard, and he talks directly to the audience as he makes his final declaration—“So, why do I want to attend Harvard? If I was white, would you even have to ask me that question?”

Without a doubt, there is a certain universal appeal in the coming-of-age stories that are told in all these films. While they may focus on completely different characters, time periods, and settings, these films find unity in their message—growing up is a process that’s different for everyone. But let’s put this idea to the test by taking a look at films that some people in America might consider unusual. I am, of course, talking about foreign films. And no other film showcases the brilliance of coming-of-age stories in international cinema like Bong Joon-ho’s 2017 drama, Okja.

To say the least, Bong Joon-ho is a visionary. Like some of his previous works—namely The Host and Snowpiercer—Okja can be seen as a cultural think piece hidden behind the guise of a genre film. Partially set in South Korea, the film follows a young girl, Mija, who lives on top of a majestic mountain with her grandfather. Oh, and they also have a pet pig the size of a truck. The name of this super pig is Okja, and she’s been with Mija for ten years. She’s one of twenty six genetically modified super pigs given to local farmers across the globe by Mirando Corporation—a food company. When Mirando Corporation reposes Okja for marketing purposes, Mija is determined to go after them and reclaim her best friend (Choi, Gardner, Joon-ho, Kim, Kleiner, Sarandos, & Woo-sik, 2017). Her relationship with Okja is the centerpiece of this film, and the way Joon-ho explores their dynamic proves that there’s more to Mija’s story than meets the eye.

Before I move on, it’s important to look at the reality behind Okja and the role it plays in delivering a unique coming-of-age narrative. The film works hard to tackle the misconception that foreign films have little to do with cultures outside the ones they depict. In other words, foreign films cover topics that are relevant even in the West. For instance, not only are some Western scientists looking into genetically-modified pigs like the ones in Okja, but they are specifically developing larger pigs to get more protein per animal (Pevreall, 2017). In Okja, Mirando Corporation’s sole reason for creating super pigs is similar—they want to sell more bacon (Choi et al., 2017). Of course, I’m ignoring the fact that the world’s population is exponentially increasing, and genetically-modified organisms are being considered—both in the film and in reality—as a viable option to feed the masses. However, the film goes the extra mile to point out the inherent flaws—specifically with how the animals are treated—that come with a private company leading the charge on a global issue such as this.

Mija’s journey takes her from Seoul to New York City as she meets the Animal Liberation Front (ALF)—a real organization—who prioritize the freedom and safety of all animals. They vow to help her free Okja from the grasp of Mirando Corporation and expose the company for their mistreatment of the super pigs. In one of the most heartbreaking sequences in the film, Okja is forced to mate with a male super pig in an unkempt Mirando laboratory (Choi et al., 2017). Afterwards, her only response is to isolate herself in the corner of the lab. She’s numb to all feelings and unresponsive to her surroundings. But why choose to have this scene in the film at all? It’s a fair question. Sometimes, it can feel like films can use rape—and other crimes related to sexual assult—as a plot device, but that isn’t the case here. To have the first scene where we explicitly see the unfair treatment of an animal be such a horrifying act is a smart move on Joon-ho’s part. He makes sure the audience hears him the first time—the horrors that animals face by our hands is nothing short of an atrocity. And this experience changes not only Okja but Mija too.

The ALF is able to record the act, and they plan to use the footage to expose Mirando in the eyes of the public. What’s equally as heartbreaking as Okja’s abuse is the choice that Jay, the leader of the AFL, makes—he doesn’t tell Mija about the incident (Choi et al., 2017). And, in doing so, the story depicts a pivotal part of most people’s childhood—when parents lie to protect their children from the jarring realities of the world. While Jay isn’t Mija’s father, he is certainly a father figure as he spends most of his time trying to protect her from Mirando’s enforcement officers. Of course, when Mija is reunited with Okja, she knows something is wrong—it just goes to show how strong their bond is. Joon-ho uses their friendship to contrast with the previous theme of brutality. He tells us that the two distinct themes often go hand-in-hand because the animals that we treat harshly are the same ones we love. It’s an idea that’s explored more fulfillingly later on.

In its most essential form, Okja is a story about how our perception of animals correlates with these two themes. To put it simply, animals can either be friends or food. But the film manages to deconstruct that idea when it merges the two separate thoughts into one. The third act of the film is the most gruesome yet. It shows hundreds of super pigs kept in tight confinement at Mirando’s camps—which is how regular livestock is treated today as well (Pevreall, 2017); there’s a meat factory with dead super pigs being cut by chainsaws; there’s pools of blood being swept by Mirando employees; and finally, there’s a contraption which holds the super pigs in place as they got shot in the head by a worker. We follow Mija as she walks through the factory, gasping every time she sees the horrors it has to offer (Choi et al., 2017). It’s clear that this is no place for a kid to be, but that’s exactly why the scene hits hard. Joon-ho doesn’t hold back this time—he allows Mija to experience the world in all of its most raw form. It’s disturbing, unwelcoming, and cruel. Perhaps the takeaway here is that there’s only so much we can do to shield kids from seeing the world for what it really is. Eventually, they’ll have to face it for themselves, whether they’re ready or not.

However, it doesn’t end there. The film reaches its climax when Mija sees Okja in the factory as she’s being harnessed into a machine. Okja is about to be shot (Choi et al., 2017). For the audience, it’s almost unwatchable. The journey we’ve seen the two go on together has been filled with ups and downs, and it would be a tragedy to see it end like this. With this, the film returns to its key point—the animals we look at as food are often the same ones that can be perceived as friends. But, as a society, we draw lines between the two, so we can pretend they aren’t the same thing. Joon-ho himself has stated that the film’s purpose is not to convince people to become vegans. Rather, he states that, “I do want my audience to consider, at least once, where the food on their plate comes from. And, if one is to do that, I believe the level of meat consumption will gradually decline” (Loughrey, 2017).

Even though it deals with people from different backgrounds, Okja is still able to convey universal messages and themes with its storytelling. While a brief look at foreign films may make them seem irrelevant to American life, a closer look proves that this is not the case. Mija and Okja’s bond throughout the film not only attacks the standard perception of animals in the West, but it also shows how an adolescent navigates through a world like that. While Jim Stark and Malcolm Adekanbi struggle to find their place in the world, Mija knows where she belongs. The end of the film finds Mija back at her mountain top with Okja, safe and sound (Choi et al., 2017). But the factories they left behind are still a very real threat to the other super pigs in the world. Yes, Mija was able to save Okja, but what about the hundreds of other animals being slaughtered? Ultimately, Mija’s journey teaches her the only way to find peace in such a harsh and complicated world is to leave it alone. It’s not fair but hardly anything is.

Ever since independent film studios emerged, the cinematic landscape has changed completely. From receiving praise from casual movie-goers to film critics, these studios—A24, Lionsgate, Mirmax, to name a few—have carved out their own space in cinema. Since the 1990s, they’ve risen in popularity to the point where they outperform major film studios at the Academy Awards—the most prestigious award show for films (Shone, 2015). If they’re winning all these awards, then there must be something special about indie films, right? Well, there is. It comes as no surprise that the films—especially coming-of-age ones—they make differ tonally and thematically from major studio productions. Among the list of acclaimed films made by independent studios is 2019’s satirical dark comedy, Jojo Rabbit. Not only did Jojo Rabbit receive the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay this year, but it also stood out amongst other films for its one-of-a-kind narrative. Compared with something like Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse—which was made by Sony Pictures, a major studio—we can see exactly what kind of impact an independent studio has on a film.

Jojo Rabbit is directed by Taika Waititi—who also plays Adolf Hitler in the film. The story follows Jojo Betzler—played by the wonderful Roman Griffin Davis in his debut role—as he grows up in Germany during World War II. Unfortunately, Jojo is a Nazi. Or, at least, he wants to be one. The film opens with Jojo on his first day at the Hitler Youth training camp where he is taught how to kill (Neal, Waititi, & Winstanley, 2019). The only problem is that Jojo is inherently a good person—he has to be for the film to work. Waititi connects the audience to Jojo immediately by having him disobey a direct order to kill a rabbit. When he refuses to do so, he’s taunted by his friends, and they give him the nickname Jojo Rabbit. It’s this good-hearted nature that makes Jojo’s narrative so captivating—it’s something people can relate too. I’ve found myself a victim of the people around me. I’m sure other people have been just as easily tricked into believing an idea that they did not think of themselves. But how we break from this mindset is what the core of Jojo Rabbit is concerned with.

Being so heavily indoctrinated into Nazi idealogy, Jojo creates an imaginary friend to talk to whenever he’s conflicted. This imaginary friend, of course, is Adolf Hitler (Neal et al., 2019). He’s a visual manifestation of everything that Jojo has been taught by his superiors. This idea is brilliant for two reasons. First, it shows the audience that Jojo is clearly wrestling with trusting the ideology of others and forming opinions of his own. Second, having an imaginary friend is an important part of many kids’ childhoods. Suzanne Bouffard—a developmental psychologist who focuses on children—says that as much as 50% of all kids create imaginary friends as they grow up (Bouffard, 2018). It not only makes him a little more relatable, but it shows growth when we see him talking back to the imaginary Adolf throughout the film. It becomes obvious that he has some hesitations about being a Nazi. However, this doesn’t stop him from trying to be a mean person—especially when he discovers a Jewish girl hiding out in a secret compartment in his own house.

As the film progresses, Jojo’s home turns into a figurative warzone—and a literal one too as the Allied armies reach Germany. After he recovers from the initial shock of finding a stranger living in his house, he starts talking with her. While he’s initially defensive of his opinions—mainly the Nazi ones—he realizes that there’s a slight possibility that he’s wrong (Neal et al., 2019). This is where we see Jojo’s innocence impact his perception of the world. Although everything that he’s been taught tells him to report the girl, he refuses to do so. This disregard for the law causes him to get into a dispute with Adolf—the first of many.

As he becomes more and more skeptical of the Nazi teachings and propaganda, the authorities he once looked up to are now a threat to him. This is best shown by a moment in the film where the Gestapo, the secret Nazi police, pay him a visit (Neal et al., 2019). The tone of the scene—Waititi manages to mix tension and humor perfectly—represents Jojo’s shifting perspective as well. Just as the scene is more tense than humorous, Jojo is more willing to reject Nazi idealogy than accept it. Throughout the film, these tones fight for control of each scene which helps solidify the message Waititi is trying to convey—there’s always time to change the person you are.

While Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse shares some similarities—tonally and thematically—with Jojo Rabbit, it is altogether a different type of film. Spider-Verse—directed by Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, and Rodney Rothmon—follows Miles Morales, the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Well, not yet. When we find Miles at the beginning of the film, he’s a regular kid who is struggling to live up to the expectations his father has set out for him—another relatable situation. Because of that, Miles cherishes the time he gets to spend with his uncle—they often spray-paint in the sewers together (Arad, Lord, Miller, Pascal, & Steinberg, 2019). This could be a commentary on the pressure kids face to be successful by their parents or on how hard it is to explore passions when society pushes kids to all follow the same route—go to college, get a degree, etc. Either way, it’s obvious that Miles is stuck between a rock and a hard place. Obviously, his father wouldn’t approve of Miles’ outings with his uncle, and his father would be right. When Miles is bitten by a spider in the sewers, he gets all the superpowers of Spider-Man. And when he witnesses the death of Peter Parker—the actual Spider-Man—Miles takes it upon himself to be the city’s new protector (Arad et al., 2019). However, like the situation with his father, Miles struggles to meet the responsibilities that come with being Spider-Man. It’s ironic considering that all the pressure he’s facing is coming from people who love him. This dilemma places a key role in the film as Miles constantly questions whether he has what it takes to be the person the city he needs.

These questions become more prevalent as Miles meets a Spider-Man from another universe who offers to teach him how to watch over the city. However, even with all the lessons he gets, Miles still feels unprepared. This hesitation is a direct result of the heavy burdens placed on him by his father. It’s hard to meet someone else’s expectations—a lesson Miles knows all too well. And the situation becomes worse when his one, true support system—his uncle—turns out to be one of the bad guys (Arad et al., 2019). With no one left in Miles’ corner, the film gets at its main point—the belief you have in yourself is more essential than anything anyone else can give you. This culminates in one of the best sequences in the film—Miles’ leap of faith. Without any safety net, he jumps off a building knowing that he’ll be able to swing his way out of it (Arad et al., 2019). It’s a defining moment for the young hero which serves as proof that he has mastered his powers and accepted the responsibility of being Spider-Man. And it highlights a clear point of contrast between independent studios and major studios. That kind of cinematic moment appears often in major studios’ blockbuster films—it’s flashy, bold, and badass. It can be clipped online without any context (see below), and people will enjoy it just the same. This is something that isn’t present in Jojo Rabbit, or in most indie films. There isn’t a big moment where the protagonist does something epic. Rather, the narrative is slow, steady, and has its own kinds of exciting story beats.

While the two films both feature young kids being pressured by those around them to behave in a certain way, Jojo Rabbit’s depictions come across as far more extreme. Perhaps this is a result of one story being based on reality and the other on fiction. However, a film’s tones and themes are impacted by the type of studio behind the project. It’s unlikely that a major studio would back a project in which a young boy is openly depicted as a Nazi regardless of how the subject matter is handled. Major studios would simply not back a project with such a controversial topic and unique approach. Not only are blockbusters more expensive to make, but they rely heavily on a big marketing budget (Shone, 2015). All things considered, it makes sense why Spider-Verse was pursued by Sony. The film is easily marketable—as shown by the previous few film franchises featuring Spider-Man—and contains a twist on the character which makes it more relevant in today’s discussion about race and diversity. This doesn’t make Spider-Verse any worse a film, however. It just supports the idea that while major studios and independent film studios make coming-of-age stories that are thematically and tonally similar, independent film studios tend to be more risky with their projects. It allows for a nice contrast in final products which benefits all movie-goers alike.

Since the creation of the genre, coming-of-age films have worked to tell an authentic story about the youth. It’s hard to tell where the genre is going to go from here, but one thing is for sure—all the films will have their own unique coming-of-age message. The fact that there’s a surplus of films in this genre only ensures that there’s something everyone will be able to relate to—and that’s the whole point! There is no one defining theme outside of the idea that coming of age is different for everyone.

At the heart of the genre, there will always be kids like Jim, Malcolm, Mija, Jojo, and Miles. Each one learned something unique on their journeys. Some of them became different people, and some of them learned that they shouldn’t. The diverse messages behind the films only work to the genre's benefit not only because of the lessons they learned but because of all the issues that the films covered. It’s why most of you reading this can at least think about one film that has stuck with you.

The best mistakes are the ones you make while growing up. The ability to capture those mistakes on film and show them to other people is exhilarating—it means people can learn from mistakes that they haven’t even made themselves. So go ahead. Make all the mistakes you want. And if you make some really good ones, tell some people about it. Not only do you get closer to the person you’re going to become, but you get closer to the people you share your stories with too. And that's all growing up is. Films have shown us that much to be true.