"Palo Alto" has a lot of direct ancestors and even more godfathers. On the shared DNA side, we have, from Gia Coppola's grandfather Francis Ford, "The Outsiders"; from her aunt Sofia, the (very recent) "Bling Ring". George Lucas, Peter Bogdanovich, Gus Van Sant, and many others look on, no doubt benevolently, at the many echoes of (or direct quotations from) their work, while Larry Clark kind of peeks in from the wings, no doubt shaking his head over how the sexy parts never go all the way.
The sad news, I'm afraid, is that the sum does not reach the quality of the many appropriated parts.
Interestingly, it is above all Van Sant who seems to be channeled here. This is partly due to the cinematography of Autumn Durald, which echoes, but does not equal, the work that Harris Savides and others have done for Van Sant. The many tight shots of the talented young actors have, at their best, much of the empathy and meaning that Van Sant invests in even the slightest of his young cast members. But there is nothing in this film that can remotely touch even the most casual, off-hand exchanges of the opening moments of "Elephant", for example.
But Van Sant comes to mind above all because of the arrival here of Val Kilmer's son Jack, whose resemblance to the River Pheonix of "My Own Private Idaho" is startling. This cannot be coincidental: James Franco, the author of the source material of "Palo Alto" (and an actor in it), worked with Van Sant on a tribute to Phoenix, "My Own Private River", and the resemblance cannot have been missed as the younger Kilmer was being cast. In a film about teenagers, he alone (born in 1995) actually looks like one. (Though not as absurdly as in so many other American movies, all the other young actors look just a couple of crucial years older than the characters they are supposed to be playing.) And he feels like one, and projects complex emotions in ways that are attributable to one He is extraordinary, and required no help from the make-up department, I'm sure, to produce the growth of peach fuzz on his upper lip that appears in several of his scenes. (All credit to Coppola for letting it be.) I hope and trust that Uncle Gus is paying attention and will do something great with this talented kid before he grows too much older. (It should be noted, by the way, that Kilmer père plays a cameo here, as a step-parent grotesque who could have wandered in from a Judd Apatow movie. His brief, hammy sequences are embarrassingly out of synch with this film and should have been cut.)
Others are quite good, too, and Emma Roberts (niece of Julia), as the female lead, is more than that -- she is revealed here to be an extraordinary actress, perhaps even the next Scarlett Johannson. Too bad that she also, as mentioned, looks a few years too old for this particular role.Still, the camera captures her with real affection and sympathy. Oddly,though the budding romance between her character and Kilmer's is the central plot line of the movie (to the extent that there is one), neither actor is seen to best effect in their (few) actual scenes together.
Franco plays a girls' soccer coach with a dangerous glint in his eye quite well, though the camera (a recurring problem in this film) holds his reaction shots for too long, weakening rather than underlining his predatory smirk. The rest of the adults are negligible, and the other teens are more run of the mill young American actors.
Of the plot there is little to say: teenagers in yet another California town, left to their own devices by distracted adults, stumble around, get drunk and stoned out of their minds. Sex ensues, of course (rather prudishly portrayed, with everything below the belt taking place below the frame). Attractions and jealousies sprout, with some age-appropriate hints of sexual ambiguity. Friendships hit a brick wall. Something like true love seems in the end to be brewing.
The classics of the genre have all been made. This calling-card film shows Gia Coppola to have talent, and she no doubt will go on to do bigger and better things. One could question whether, had she not been a Coppola, this film would ever have been made, but that would be churlish, as it is in its way not bad at all and, at moments, is very good indeed. And we should all be grateful for its revelations of the younger Roberts and, especially, Kilmer, who should, by rights, head on from this to greater things in the hands of more seasoned directors. In this sense, "Palo Alto" might turn out to be "The Outsiders" of their generation: we saw them here first.
