2002’s “Tadpole”, directed by Gary Winick.
Starring Aaron Stanford, Sigourney Weaver, John Ritter, Bebe
Neuwirth, Kate Mara, Robert Ller, Peter Appel , Alicia Van Couvering, and Adam
LeFevre.
What is it about?
Filmed in the New York City area, 15 year old Aaron Stanford
returns home from school abroad for Thanksgiving weekend. He connects with his
college professor father (John Ritter), who is engaged to heart researcher,
Sigourney Weaver. Stanford is somewhat of a prodigy, and has no interest in
girls his own age (such as Kate Mara)- being in love with Weaver instead.
Stanford has to work through his teenage feelings, and occasional missteps
(such as sleeping with Weaver’s best friend, Bebe Neuwirth, or using dog hair to
give himself side burns to look older). Will he be able to come to grips with
his infatuation, or will he destroy his father’s engagement to get what he
wants?
Why is it worth seeing?
“Tadpole” has it’s charms as a (somewhat) Thanksgiving
themed coming of age story. It has a lovely cast (I miss John Ritter), has some
amusing moments of a 15 year old trying to act older and the effects that has
on others around him, and is a pleasant feel good ride.
However, it’s grainy and muddy digital video obscures a fact
that is plain as day: it’s central protagonist is pretty unlikable. It’s a fact
that most teenagers are insufferable, but watching our young male reject
advances from girls who look like Kate Mara because he can speak french and can
quote Voltaire is less than precious.
Worse, the movie presents this problem as a feeding frenzy of estrogen lust, where everywhere Stanford goes there’s another group of women throwing themselves at him because he likes to hold court about philosophers. Not since Walt Stillman’s work has scholastic intellectual prowess been held in such high regard as an aphrodisiac. If you’ve ever read a philosopher and wanted other people to have sex with you because you can now quote them, “Tadpole” is your manifesto.
Worse, the movie presents this problem as a feeding frenzy of estrogen lust, where everywhere Stanford goes there’s another group of women throwing themselves at him because he likes to hold court about philosophers. Not since Walt Stillman’s work has scholastic intellectual prowess been held in such high regard as an aphrodisiac. If you’ve ever read a philosopher and wanted other people to have sex with you because you can now quote them, “Tadpole” is your manifesto.
Despite reservations about it’s central character,
“Tadpole”’s metamorphosis into something more mature is a pleasant Thanksgiving
swim.
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