This Catch Up is written by Chelsea Cristene
Year of Release: 2003
Rating: R for drug use, language, self-destructive violence, and sexuality.
Currently Streaming on Netflix?: No.
I seem to be falling into a “ten year anniversary” pattern on this blog already with the 2003 movies, but I won’t lie – it’s always fun to look at films released when I was a teenager through the sage old wisdom of my mid-twenties (ha!).
Thirteen is a movie about teenagers but arguably not for them, due to the veritable platter of adult material. You name it, it’s probably in here: marijuana, LSD, alcohol, sex, oral sex, shoplifting and other forms of stealing, self-harm in the form of cutting, and of course, thongs. Written by Nikki Reed and Catherine Hardwicke (both of recent Twilight fame) and directed by Hardwicke, Thirteen is based on actual events from Reed’s troubled adolescence. Evan Rachel Wood stars as our tragic heroine Tracy Freeland; Reed stars as her influential “bad girl” best friend, Evie.
Tracy’s transformation in a mere ninety minutes of screen time is nothing short of heartbreaking. At the beginning of the film, she is a bright yet understated teenage girl who, when she’s not working on a school project, enjoys writing poetry and palling around with a young Vanessa Hudgens (yes, that’s her!). Upon meeting “regulation hottie” (thanks for making this a part of my vernacular, Mean Girls) Evie Zamora, Tracy rededicates her young life to impressing the popular clique, furiously tossing her stuffed animals into a wastebasket and bemoaning her “Cabbage Patch” wardrobe. Before long, Tracy ditches the jelly bracelets for tongue rings and the lowest of low-rise jeans, steals purses to go shopping on Melrose, and spends her evenings dropping acid at the park. Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Tracy’s middle school could easily be transplanted into any suburban U.S. town, but the rest of the the film’s Los Angeles backdrop is just as much a catalyst to Tracy’s downward spiral as the manipulative Evie. The shops on Melrose Avenue are blindingly decadent (Red Balls’ storefront alone is an exercise in sensory overload), looking more like adult novelty shops than clothing stores for teens. After skipping out on a family movie night with Tracy’s mom and boyfriend, the girls run wild on Hollywood Boulevard a jungle of…well, jungle juice, hoards of teens freestyle rapping on street corners, and curtained dressing rooms perfect for stealing a torrid quickie. During the day, the city’s beachy coastal colors are distorted, muted, almost as if there’s a blue filter over the camera lens. At night, the camera movements are jerky and disorienting, increasing in lopsidedness and Tracy digs herself into more and more trouble.
It’s painful not only to watch Tracy disappear into a hell of her own making, but to watch Melanie Freeland wrestle with how to save her daughter amid all of her other troubles. Melanie (in what is easily my favorite performance from Holly Hunter and one that rightfully scored her an Oscar nod) makes ends meet as a high-school dropout with a home-based hairstyling service, regularly attends AA meetings, and, much to Tracy’s chagrin, repeatedly slips back into an on-again, off-again relationship with recovering drug addict Brady (Jeremy Sisto). She is a character as vibrant and complicated as the L.A. scenery around her, manufacturing her own brand of “cool” with her love of “entertainment streak” highlights and her penchant for tracking down thrifty second-hand clothes for Tracy’s new wardrobe. Roger Ebert described Melanie as “clueless but not uncaring,” and I’d also tack “terrified” onto that list of adjectives. Tracy’s behavior is foreshadowed during an early scene when she reads one of her deeper poems out loud to her mother (“It scares me a little,” Melanie admits) and intensifies during a heated standoff in the kitchen when Tracy repeatedly slaps at her thighs and taunts, “No bra, no panties,” as she backs the wide-eyed, disbelieving Melanie into a corner. I’d also argue that part of Melanie’s “cluelessness” is the freedom she extends to Tracy and her brother out of guilt, for she can’t buy Tracy the designer jeans she dreams of, force her ex-husband to cough up the child support, or afford anything beyond “$1.50 a square foot floor.” Tracy’s problems are many, but Melanie is the reminder we all need that even the most selfless of mothers aren’t without problems of their own.