My childhood in California can be memorialized as a hodgepodge of rainbow pool towels, water guns, cherry popsicles, plastic cups, and sticky fingers: a pandemonium of juvenile chaos that could only be found at a pool party. Speakers blasted my dad’s encyclopedic Shazam playlist while I splashed my sister, and immediately regretted it. The lazy summer sun almost forgot to set while we sat on the patio waiting for pizza delivery, wrapped in ponchos and towels like little Russian babushki.
A few weeks ago, I was reminiscing about The Edge of Seventeen, my favorite movie I watched in high school. The film’s deadpan humor and raw writing capture the abrasive and oftentimes painfully awkward essence of what it means to “come of age.” Towards the middle, the protagonist Nadine phones a boy: “Hey, do you have a swimming pool? Can I come swim in it?” It dawned on me that all of the best (i.e. my favorite) coming-of-age films seem to have a commonality: pool parties.
I grew up during the golden age of the “Disney Channel Original Movie”: sparkly and deliciously corny mostly-musicals where nothing bad happened and Kevin Chamberlin always made a guest appearance. The plot is the same every time: The protagonist lives in a world where they don’t feel they entirely fit in, then they discover they have a special talent or skill, and use it to overcome some sort of obstacle. The climax is usually a grand celebration of their individuality, of breaking free from the status quo. Despite their formulaic storylines, Disney Channel movies from this time radiated an aura of youthful harmony and joy that got me every time. I planned my weekends around High School Musical and Camp Rock movie marathons.
Maybe it’s just me, but when I was nine, all I truly wanted was to be an extra in Teen Beach Movie. A meta retelling of the musical West Side Story, bikers and surfers band together to bring protagonists Mack and Brady home after a massive wave plunges them into the movie set of “Wet Side Story.” As if it were yesterday, I remember rewinding the dance break in “Cruisin’ for A Bruisin’" on my portable DVD player to learn how to dance like Ross Lynch. I was unsuccessful. The ocean—a pool of sorts—serves as the story’s catalyst, representing a place of possibility and imagination, where reality can be turned on its head. The film is surprisingly thoughtful for one targeted at a young audience, managing “to explore themes of environmentalism, anti-capitalism, feminism, and the abolition of gender roles—all under the guise of a silly campy beach musical,” according to a review by Freddie Hill.
Watching Disney Channel movies, I couldn’t wait to start high school. In retrospect, despite their entertainment value, I think they gave me unrealistic expectations for what being a teenager was going to be like. The actors were far too old, the characters never experienced any true hardship, and the plots were idealistic and based on extraordinary circumstances. I went to an all-girls school, so the closest I came to football players becoming theatre stars was me, playing a fish in our fall musical, The Little Mermaid.
As I grew older, I continued to search for movies I could identify with. I found most movies that tried to portray adolescence felt like speculative fiction. It was obvious the writers hadn’t been teens for years; the jargon was outdated and references to popular culture were cliché. Pool parties have become an analogy for the teenage experience: strange and turbulent places in which nobody knows how to act their age, everyone realizes they’re wearing far fewer clothes than usual, and it becomes socially acceptable to belly flop.
Stand-up comedian Bo Burham’s directorial debut Eighth Grade is the most authentic and vulnerable portrayal of modern teenage awkwardness in cinema. Ironically, it’s also rated R. During her last week of eighth grade, the protagonist Kayla navigates what it means to be dubbed the “most quiet” student in her class. Portrayed by Elsie Fisher, who was only 14 during filming, Kayla navigates crushes, acne, self-image, and social media in a world that desires to accelerate adolescence. She has her own YouTube channel, where she posts advice about how to stop caring what others think, be yourself, and find confidence. But, at their core, the videos Kayla posts are failed attempts at trying to convince herself she doesn’t care what others think, when in reality, she struggles with intense self-consciousness and social anxiety.
Perhaps the most famous of the bunch, the pool party in Eighth Grade is gut-wrenching. Even if you haven’t seen the movie, it’s worth watching the short scene as a study of how the camera can be used to evoke tone. It begins with an agonizingly long, drawn-out tracking shot of Kayla walking onto the patio in a neon green one-piece. Her shoulders are hunched and drawn forward. In the background, an orchestral piece with trumpets builds louder and faster, as if Hans Zimmer were marionetting the scene. These elements point towards an uneasiness in the narrative. Kayla sees a group of her male classmates shooting water guns, spitting water, and eating snacks, while her female classmates try to tan and attract attention.
The drawn-out awkwardness is finally broken when Kayla submerges underwater. The music stops and the pace slows. She leans against the edge and wraps her arms around herself. The pool is a medium of freedom, a force that both cleanses and reveals. The image Kayla manufactures through her YouTube channel dissolves, revealing her susceptibility to insecurity beneath.
If Eighth Grade epitomizes what it’s like to be a middle schooler, then Booksmart is the perfect transition to high school. The story follows Molly and Amy, two high-achieving high school seniors who want to experience what it’s like to be a “normal teenager” the night before graduation. When they finally find a party to attend, the story seems complete—cue pool party.
In contrast to Eighth Grade, the pool scene in Booksmart takes place at night during a house party. Amy is invited to go swimming with a girl she likes. The color of the water is noticeably darker, representing a place of intrigue and opportunity, as opposed to escape. Instead of one long tracking shot, there are many nimble camera breaks that quicken the tempo of the scene, eliciting a certain sense of danger and urgency. While Kayla dreads the pool party in Eighth Grade, Booksmart’s director Olivia Wilde says that Amy’s maturity allows her to “to take a leap, literally, into the pool. She’s going to shed her skin and fly.”
The song “Slip Away” by Perfume Genius creates an unexpected emotional undercurrent in the scene. Just as Amy jumps into the pool, the synth and bass crescendo like a beating heart. The second verse goes: “Don't look back, I want to break free / If you'll never see 'em coming / You'll never have to hide / Take my hand, take my everything / If we only got a moment / Give it to me now.” Underwater, Amy is exposed figurately and literally as her most unguarded self. Exhaling a visceral breath of teenage liberation, the water sets her free. Will Ferrell, an executive producer on the film, reacted to an early cut of it, saying, “That’s one of the most beautiful scenes I’ve ever seen.”
To me, swimming pools take anyone—characters in film and in real life—and reduce them to their most ordinary, natural identities. Untethered from both space and time, these scenes raise existential questions about the very nature of our existence: Who are we? How do we interact with the world? In what ways do we try to hide ourselves? Put another way, pool scenes in teenage movies expose characters’ thoughts and insecurities.
As universal childhood experiences, pool parties evoke memories of supreme moments of liberation, anxiety, joy, and introspection. I think my nostalgia for artificial bodies of water as a cornerstone of childhood, though, is in large part due to the movies I watched. As I grow older, I continue to notice how my life has been shaped and, to a certain extent, preserved by the media I consume. As a place that preserves authenticity, perhaps it's just better to swim below the surface.
