Dead Poets Society (1989)

In 1959, John Keating (Robin Williams) arrives to teach English at hidebound, stuffy old Welton College, the most exclusive prep school in America, and soon goes against the grain of the institution's policy by having his students stand on desk, tear up their text books, recite their own poetry and hide out in a cave smoking and discussing Thoreau. Keating believes in free expression and stuff like that, but the tyrannical headmaster and some even more tyrannical parents are into turning out rubber-stamped doctors and lawyers and so there's depression, gloom, scapegoating and suicide in the future for everyone.

Dead Poets Society is insidiously disguised as a good film - it has real director, the hot presence of fast-talking Williams, good performances from its young cast, a neat score and superb cinematography - but don't be fooled, it's a dawg. It really believes that a group of teenagers standing on desks while the music swells are making a significant statement against the dehumanising process, and it claims to be a serious film while resorting to annoyingly hackneyed and manipulative plot-devices to beef up its slender storyline, uninvolving script and overwhelming pomposity.

Despite a few flashes of the Williams act this is not a comedy, but it's difficult not to break into fits of giggles as a beautiful teenager, told by his monster father that he can't go on the stage, archly blows his brains out in one of the most elaborately silly death scenes in the cinema. This is the worst kind of bad film, in that it is going to be treated seriously and respectfully while it force-feeds rubbish into your head. Worse than that even, is its slow, steady, excruciatingly dull plod through the elementary anguish of unsympathetic rich brats. I'm giving it an 'F'.
KIM NEWMAN

First Published In: City Limits (issue unknown)

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