American Beauty ★★★★☆
Imagine waking up one morning, staring into your perfectly suburban, perfectly beige existence, and realizing that not only has your life become a mediocre beige too, but you’re the most boring part of it. Welcome to Lester Burnham’s world—until he flips the script on midlife crises with the sort of reckless abandon usually reserved for lottery winners and reality show contestants. Directed by Sam Mendes in his feature debut, American Beauty takes a darkly comedic dive into the suffocating, manicured lawns of suburban America, where appearances mean everything and contentment is as mythical as unicorns.
At the heart of the story is Lester Burnham (played with unsettling glee by Kevin Spacey), a man who, tired of being society’s doormat, decides to reclaim his life by acting like a petulant teenager. After developing an awkward crush on his daughter’s teenage friend Angela (Mena Suvari), he quits his soul-sucking job, extorts his boss, and buys a cherry-red ’70 Pontiac Firebird—the perfect midlife crisis starter kit. What follows is both absurd and deeply tragic as Lester’s rebellion impacts his neurotic wife Carolyn (Annette Bening), their insecure daughter Jane (Thora Birch), and the troubled neighbors, including a military dad with repressed issues (Chris Cooper).
On the surface, American Beauty could be mistaken for a satire about the vapid allure of suburban perfection, but it’s more interested in dissecting the illusion of freedom and happiness. Beneath Lester’s newfound liberation is a murkier exploration of the ways in which people trap themselves with their own misguided desires and societal expectations. Mendes, with Alan Ball’s biting script, deftly critiques the emptiness of the American Dream, showing how its glossy veneer often masks desperation. The film’s use of visual motifs—most notably the red roses—adds layers of symbolism to this critique, reflecting the tension between beauty and decay.
Cinematographer Conrad L. Hall’s work here is nothing short of stunning, saturating the film in rich, yet unsettling imagery. The most famous of these is the plastic bag scene—where a swirling, weightless piece of trash is portrayed as some sort of profound metaphor for life’s fleeting beauty. It’s either ridiculously profound or just plain ridiculous—take your pick. Hall’s use of close-ups also pulls us into the characters’ inner turmoil, adding to the film’s voyeuristic tension.
The performances match the film’s tonal gymnastics perfectly. Kevin Spacey turns Lester into a grotesque yet oddly sympathetic anti-hero. Annette Bening, as Carolyn, strikes the perfect balance between tragic and comedic, as a woman who chants self-help mantras to fill the gaping void in her life. Thora Birch and Wes Bentley, as the morose teens finding solace in each other’s dysfunction, give the film its emotional core, grounding it when things start veering toward surreal.
The pacing falters slightly in parts, with the film occasionally lapsing into self-indulgence. And that omniscient voiceover from Lester, which gives away the ending right at the beginning, threatens to spoil much of the suspense, though it could be argued that American Beauty is less about what happens and more about why it happens. But even these stumbles feel intentional—after all, the film is a satire that thrives on the absurdity of its characters’ lives.
If you’re the kind of person who loves dark comedies that poke at societal norms while simultaneously making you squirm, this is your film. For those who prefer their satire light and breezy, proceed with caution—you might find yourself deeply unsettled by how much it reflects the weirdness of real life. Four out of five plastic bags floating poetically in the wind.
American Beauty is as much about finding beauty in the mundane as it is about showing the rot lurking beneath shiny surfaces. It’s not a film that offers easy answers, but it’s one that invites you to look a little harder at the world around you—and maybe at yourself. If you find a floating plastic bag breathtaking, well, don’t worry, you’re in good company.
