First features, particularly those helmed by nascent French directors, often seem to be inordinately interested in children as a subject. From Jean Vigo’s Zero de Conduite through the Nouvelle Vague debuts of Truffaut and Pialat onward to Céline Sciamma’s recent films, there’s been a remarkable predilection toward precocious youngsters whose struggles with adolescent development parallel the continuing travails of adulthood. It’s hard to say whether this stems from some sort of birth fixation on the part of new filmmakers—telling their own story by starting at the beginning—or merely the simplicity of charting the budding period of youthful ennui, where emotions are tumultuous, broadly telegraphed and easily explained. Whatever the case, Yosemite follows in the footsteps of its forebears in depicting this phase, but it doesn’t do much innovating of its own, settling for a pleasant, artfully crafted debut that passes by like a warm breeze.
Concerning the intersecting stories of three 10-year-old boys, the film works off material from James Franco’s short story collection A California Childhood, adding a third tale written by Demeestere herself. Classmates in NYU’s film MFA program, the two previously collaborated on the poorly received 2014 thesis film The Color of Time. Some of that hostile reception may have to do with incipient resentment toward Franco, who at that point was at the peak of attention toward his career as a would-be polymath, his self-conscious performance art tendencies reaching a grating level of pervasiveness. Now, after a quiet year marked by few major performances (or stunts), it’s again possible to appreciate Franco’s positives qualities, especially in a limited, delicate role like the one he inhabits here, playing the father of one of the children. The actor proves to be much less annoying as a twinkly eyed, gently aging character actor than a desperate artistic impresario.
That said, despite the source material, this is definitively Demeestere’s movie, a fact that Franco confirms by disappearing after the first act. She comports herself well, but it’s hard not to see this film as a second-tier companion to 2014’s Palo Alto, drawn from the same collection of stories, even if that movie’s acclaim was largely due to the public fascination with the Coppola brand and its gauzy, ultimately frivolous, aesthetics. Bound to receive less attention, Yosemite is both more patient and more diffuse, overall about as successful in freshening up the tired topic of adolescent awakening. It’s not helpful that it employs the same general dramatic focus as Palo Alto, with the influence of visibly damaged adults, desperate to offer lessons and guidance on behavior, proving about as harmful as it is good to the kids who roam about this under-supervised ‘80s milieu.
Lots of information gets passed down from elders, from advice on teeth brushing to lessons in primitive internet use and how to turn the ears of slaughtered Vietnamese kids into necklaces, some of this imparted as paternal wisdom and some gleaned accidentally. Mostly though, the kids—played capably by Alec Mansky, Calum John and Everett Meckler—are on their own. From the national park setting of the first story through the other two (which concern a mounting, subdued panic in suburban Palo Alto as a mountain lion prowls the fringes of the town) a rural focus furthers the impression of these stories as misbegotten Raymond Carver knockoffs.
Corollary to the cougar subplot, a constant tension with nature is present throughout all three stories, although it’s not totally clear what this is intended to convey, aside from providing narrative frisson and serving as a clunky running metaphor. There are other looming threats as well, ranging from a spate of potential Chekhov’s guns (a possible child molester, an easily-accessed handgun, an unstable Vietnam vet stepdad) to the usual boilerplate concerns of the era (a mysteriously absent mother, an uninterested older sister babysitter, etc.). The ‘80s setting seems more like an atmospheric pose than anything, and the familiar combination of fearful trepidation and wonder, with an indistinct ending that leaves everything open for interpretation, is frustrating in its obliqueness. Yosemite is far from a bad movie, but it’s also the sort that dissolves immediately upon contact, leaving behind a vague impression of having skirted the boundaries of profundity, but little else.