Brideshead Revisited

The Weight of a Teenage Shrew

I’m not sure when the late-90s teen comedy turned into our generation’s equivalent of the old studio programmer, but I feel it every time I go back to Gil Junger's *10 Things I Hate About You*. Released in 1999, right in the middle of that rush of high-school literary remixes, this loose spin on Shakespeare's *The Taming of the Shrew* really shouldn’t have aged this well. On paper it has all the disposable ingredients: a gimmicky dating setup, a mandatory alt-rock soundtrack, a candy-colored Seattle backdrop. And yet it keeps hanging around in the culture. (It probably helps that the cast is basically a preview reel for a bunch of future heavyweights.)



Junger has said he never thought of it as just a high school movie, but as a story about human connection that happened to involve teenagers. However sincere or self-serving that claim may be, it does explain why the film feels a little heavier than its premise suggests. Julia Stiles grounds that feeling almost single-handedly. As Kat Stratford, she doesn’t merely seem angry; she wears her defensiveness like body armor. Her shoulders stay tight, her jaw stays locked, her eyes keep flicking around as though the next insult could arrive from any direction. It’s a deeply physical performance, and when Kat finally relaxes, you can almost feel the tension drain out of her spine.



Then there’s Heath Ledger. He was nineteen, an Australian television actor, and somehow already so unguarded on screen. What strikes me most now is how little vanity he brings to Patrick Verona, the supposedly dangerous bad boy Cameron hires to woo Kat. Ledger doesn’t play him as some tortured rebel idol. He plays him like a lanky theater kid who also happens to smoke and wear combat boots. The stadium serenade remains the obvious showcase, but it holds up for a reason. Patrick barges into Kat’s soccer practice and belts Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" with more enthusiasm than skill. Junger shoots it wide, letting Ledger’s gangly body scramble up bleachers, slide down railings, and dodge security. He is not a polished singer. Nobody involved pretends otherwise. The scene works because it’s gloriously awkward and fully committed.



Sure, the movie has weak spots. Some supporting arcs are cut a little short, and the elaborate mechanics of who is paying whom to date whom so Bianca can finally go to prom occasionally reduce conversations to exposition delivery. But the emotional center never really slips. In the end, everything lands on Kat reading that poem—the titular ten things—in English class. Stiles has to peel away ninety minutes of sarcasm in real time, and the camera simply trusts her face. Her voice cracks. Tears arrive. The movie, usually racing along like a screwball farce, suddenly goes still. That’s why it lasts. It treats teenage emotion with exactly the catastrophic intensity teenagers feel themselves, and it understands that growing up is embarrassing enough to be true.