Richard Linklater is wearing the same shirt he had on last night. An airline baggage blip meant a last-minute dash to M&S, and picking up the best international feature prize at the British Independent Film awards in a crisp white number. This afternoon, the shop-fold creases are still visible. He’s sanguine about it. Linklater seems sanguine about everything; a Texan benevolence informs all his work, no matter how carefully scripted, from his breakthrough Slacker to the Before trilogy, Bernie and School of Rock and beyond. (Two weeks ago, he wrapped his next film, That’s What I’m Talking About, a quasi-sequel to Dazed and Confused.)
Plus, of course, Linklater would do well to stockpile dress shirts. For the first time in his career, he is on the awards campaign trail, as Boyhood – his extraordinary coming-of-age tale shot over 12 years – is currently front-runner for best picture and best director Oscars (and most other awards inbetween).
How does it feel to be winning so much?
Pretty amazing. Time has been good to Boyhood already. Sometimes you get swept up in a movie and then you go: ‘What was that really? I like the surface but it’s revealed itself to be not that enduring or complex.’ It’s flattering to even be in the conversation at this time of year.
It would be sad if something with such deep roots couldn’t sustain momentum over a year.
A lot of it has to do with the fact it’s been a popular success. I’ve made movies where people say it’s their favourite but they don’t take it seriously because it just didn’t seem to break through commercially.
As with Before Midnight? Everyone loved it but it only got an adapted screenplay nomination.
There’s a threshold. Those are the rules of our culture. Last year, Gravity, 12 Years a Slave and Before Midnight were the three best-reviewed films of the year. Now, what’s the difference? Which one was just completely off the table that it could be considered for a best picture?
So it’s all about commercial success?
One hundred percent. To jump from the indie ranks to play with the big dogs, there’s a gate you have to pass through. And maybe that is just. Film is a popular entertainment medium. It’s not that way with books. But with films, prizes are part of the marketing.
The actors said they found it a very freeing experience to not have to worry about the reviews for more than a decade.
Yeah, it felt like we weren’t even making a movie. There was no expectation, no distributor. A lot of movies are being marketed as they’re being shot. We were doing this in a vacuum. No one seemed to understand or to care much. Why should they? It’s so far away. It was like a time sculpture.
You must have had great confidence in your initial vision.
Yeah. I bet the whole farm on the idea that this collection of intimate moments would add up, would mean something. I would occasionally get these insecure flashes. Is it enough? Should I be telling a bigger story? Should someone have cancer? I wanted the film to feel like a memory of some kind. I didn’t want to get trapped in a story that felt dramatic – ie plot, or manufactured. Even the score didn’t work. Any authorial thing just pulls you out. We didn’t use words to demarcate the years. Your life just flows. I was hoping to capture the way time feels, passing.
Yet audiences these days are conditioned to expect payoffs.
They’re very satisfying. But they weren’t gonna work here. I bet everything that there would be an identification that you couldn’t quite explain. Why do I care about these people? Because I feel like I know ’em. They seem vulnerable in the world. It’s the power of our medium itself. These are not extraordinary people. Statistically they’re probably within a lot of norms. Divorced family, two siblings. Socio-economically, they’re like a lot of people not often represented. Usually, it’s pretty well-to-do people, where money’s not an issue or really poor people, and that’s the subject.
And you think a lot of people who work in film don’t appreciate its power?
Executives ask me: what are the stakes? If his dog died, that means we should care about him. I like films that just put you in someone’s world. It can be very subversive. Hitchcock would put you in the mind of a psychopath and you’d care about them. Storytelling is powerful; film particularly. We can know a lot of things intellectually but humans really live on storytelling. Primarily with ourselves; we’re all stories of our own narrative. But others’, too. Uncle Tom’s Cabin was the first time that white Americans were made to empathise [with black people]. Even if you were someone who wasn’t even against slavery, in this particular story, you’re pulling for the slave to get free.
Boyhood isn’t called Childhood. Is it about becoming a man?
It could be called Parenthood or Motherhood or, for the first part, Girlhood. But at the end of the day the point of view is his. You notice slowly that the older sister and parents start to take a backseat. I’d say to Ethan [Hawke]: ‘No, we don’t really need you to shoot. You’re gonna be on a Skype call.’ It’s like parenting. ‘Drop me off at the party.’ They slowly leave you. Mason would emerge into his own story. The older you get, the more complex things get in his own life. He’s getting his heart broke. Welcome to it! To full human agency. Earlier it was things happening to his parents. And a lot of them off screen. The bigger things you’re just having to deduce from repercussions. As the youngest sibling [Linklater has two older sisters; Mason has one] you’re the last to know. You don’t have any say. Kids are incredibly vulnerable to atmospheres. You just don’t have any power.
But the film presents quite a robust view of children. The moving, the broken home, the drunken stepfathers – it doesn’t really damage him.
I hope so. Humans in general are pretty resilient. Kids in particular. I’m amazed how quickly you adapt. I think outside of the trauma and abuse, we become who we’re meant to be. What the worst thing that happened to Mason? His stepfather is a drunk who has a disease. That’s how the world’s gonna be. You’re gonna have a boss who’s an asshole; probably a drunk too, or has other problems. You’re gonna be hassled. We’re all bouncing off each other. People think they went through a lot, but doesn’t everybody?
Do you think people at the moment are especially keen to assume victimhood?
Yeah. ‘You feeling bad? You wanna play victim for a while? Because you can.’ I sometimes do that. I had a girlfriend once who said: ‘Every time I hear about your childhood I just wanna cry.’ I was like: ‘Really? Is that the way I describe it? I kinda liked my childhood.’ It’s an interesting way to take your own temperature if you’re looking for excuses in your past. I’m lucky – my parents were smart. Taught me to love books and art. I was unlucky in that they were really poor. Victimhood is not a positive headspace to be in, but there’s something it in. Resentment kind of motivates the world. Most wars, most political leaders … there’s national resentments, there’s a lot of divisions. It’s the chips you have on your shoulder.
Was making Boyhood cathartic?
Yeah, every film is. This one goes beyond that. With every film, you’re excising a story that you’ve been obsessed with. This is still revealing itself to me. I don’t have any answers now. But I did have a wonderful deepening of everything about life: growing up, parenting. Every movie, you’re getting a degree in whatever that subject is. This couldn’t be more life-affirming. It was a great way to spend 12 years.
