Over the course of nearly 40 years, I have loved a lot of cinema. Many titles have gone on to inspire me in unfathomable ways, while others continue to exist in rotation solely because of their entertainment value. However, if one were to differentiate between favorites and some greater influence, only a handful would make that small, formative list. These are the ones who change how you consume art to the point that it creates a perfect dividing line between what you loved the day before and everything that followed. In my case, today’s pick is one that I saw on a whim at a small Lakewood theater that no longer exists based on no more than time convenience and a plot description that, in hindsight, sounds more like Mad Libs but came across like a revolutionary comedy in the mind of a 17-year-old looking to beat the summer heat.
And so we trekked off to see a film that focused on a drug-addicted grandfather, a suicidal cousin, a brother who had taken a vow of silence until he joined the air force, an overconfident mother, a father stuck in a pyramid scheme, and a little average-looking girl with a dream to win a beauty pageant. Nowadays the premise seems boilerplate for the maligned “quirky comedy” formula, but at the time I was less discriminating. I was eager to see how you stuck so many odd couples in a rundown minibus and expected them to get along. Where could this story possibly go? Given that I was digesting a healthy diet of Adam Sandler and Will Ferrell comedies, I had my assumptions for slapstick and broad humor that resulted in some chaotic scheme. The poster, in which half the family was seen running towards the side door of the central yellow minivan, gave off the madcap vibes that promised my assumptions would be delivered upon.
To their credit, Little Miss Sunshine (2006) delivered with a comedy full of unexpected triumphs. From beginning to end, I found these small moments that were resonating with me, making these initial caricatures come to life with depth and meaning. Whereas the comedies I watched tended to be joke-first, this was a story that infiltrated the comedy by way of character development, where it was all done in the name of love for family. They may have all been flawed, even downright detestable at times, but you came away loving them because there was a unified respect for the greater cause. Sure, protagonist Olive may have been a glasses-wearing dweeb who doesn’t fit the typical beauty standards, but you believed in her cause because Abigail Breslin brought such a hopeful sincerity to the performance. Not only that, but her ability to see past the flaws of those around her served as the driving force.
I’m sure at the time I was more invested in the plot beats than any deeper criticism. The third act especially is littered with some of the greatest set pieces of comedy I saw in the late-2000s. From the hospital scene to the inspired use of Rick James, there was effort put into every gag that made you understand the potential of thoughtful writing, where an interweaving structure could lead to small and personal epiphanies. This wasn’t a story where the underdog came out and changed the world. In fact, they leave the film with the same beat-up bus that has always been there. Whereas some directors would treat this as a joke of resentment, filmmakers Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris allowed the broken car horn to blare as this sweet reminder of how anything can be overcome so long as the family works together.
When I say that Little Miss Sunshine changed my life, I’m not suggesting that I turned my back on everything else. Like most people in the final years before 20, there’s a formative period where you are stuck in a continual act of discovery. The art that will develop your larger personality starts to appear and affirms that it’s okay to think differently. Nowadays it’s hard to imagine a time before I was championing smaller films, but there always has to be that turning point, that one film that suddenly clicks everything into place and makes you see some greater potential. Sure, this one may have a bit too many marquee names to fully qualify as a true indie darling, but it had an ambitious story that wasn’t about big-scale action. The revelations were far simpler than anyone achieving their dream. It was a story about clarity.
Nowadays, it’s easy for me to believe I’d read the same plot description that initially sold me and be skeptical. I’ve come to favor plot descriptions, even in comedies, that are more sincere. Even if they offer you something abstract, I like there to be some grounded source that the Mad Libs byline of Little Miss Sunshine doesn’t have. It may work for those favoring eccentricity, but having sat through hundreds of Sundance dramadies, I’ve seen how it’s done poorly. In a lot of ways, Little Miss Sunshine set the bar high for dysfunctional family indies simply by treating the oddities less as a spectacle and more as punctuation marks for quieter moments.
The best example of this comes in a scene that might rate as my favorite in the film. Paul Dano’s Dwayne has existed up to this point as a mute character who talks through notepads. He’s forced to be expressive even though the actor’s face is very affectless. While the world around him has evolved, he has remained consistent in his silence to fulfill a vow inspired by Frederick Nietchze as he awaits air force training. We’ve seen him play a side character, somewhat stoic as he listens without the ability to express empathy.
For every first-time viewer, the midpoint of this story has a scene that may catch them off-guard. Whereas the conflicts of everyone else seem more obvious to comprehend, Dwayne’s struggle only appears when a small conflict reveals he’s color-blind. The moment is subtle, building to a level of anxiety that hasn’t been reflected before, and yet feels in line with the character development. Running from the van, Dwayne speaks for the first time with a level of rage that clearly comes from deep in his soul. His dreams are shattered. The sacrifice has been for nothing. He cannot be a color-blind pilot. Olive comforts him, establishing that his arc for the remainder of the film is about self-acceptance.
Scenes like this help me understand the power of characterization. If you stopped the film after roughly 20 minutes, there’s a good chance that this family still feels shallow, with everyone self-involved in their own little worlds. At no point during then do you believe Olive could win. The mission is foolish. Yet there is a drive from every character that, while different, informs the value of sacrifice. Alan Arkin’s Grandpa may be brash and offer unhelpful advice to Dwayne about women, but he still does so out of hope to break him of his antisocial mannerisms and make him see the potential of the world. As much as Greg Kinnear’s Richard tries to play the father who keeps everything in order, it’s clear that he can’t. Still, he wants to see his daughter happy, to believe that she’s a winner. Time and again, the family comes up short, yet they keep moving forward, believing there’s a caveat for their struggles.
Everything that follows embodies what I’ve come to love about indies. It’s less the major moments that leave the viewer with something memorable to talk about, but the smaller mundanity in between that builds greater introspection. There are perceived hours crammed into a minibus together, and you can appreciate every dynamic as they range from the group who figured out how to pass the time to the irritable conversation that pushed one too many buttons. The beauty is observing where the comedy beats are and when the joke extends far enough into drudgery and suggests a deeper subtextual problem.
Resolutions don’t happen in convenient manners, and instead are done with a sense of displacement. The New Mexico family seems out of place in California while looking at the shoreline. It may be a stereotypical commentary on the state’s artificial standards for acceptance, but it works in contrast to what they believe is real. Their family is imperfect, but they’re no less worthy of success than anyone who is more in tune with playing the game. Only for them, that’s not found with a trophy or regimented performance. It’s in their flaws, the life experience that is unique to them. Most people have conflicts, but how many drove there in a beaten-down bus and lived to tell the tale?
It can be argued that Juno (2007) had more of a profound impact on me in the long run. However, I owe a lot to watching Little Miss Sunshine in theaters and discovering a family that never made sense together yet made even less apart. They may lack the practicality that most screenwriters would use, yet they work because of how everything functions within the story. Despite being a story where everyone ends up happy, it’s not one that takes the conventional path. Everyone teaches each other an indirect lesson on how to have a better outlook. They may have been beaten down, but they keep getting back up and seeing what tomorrow holds. Many films have said those exact words, but never quite like this. It may be why the story inspired me to think more intricately about characters and their wants and needs, for where they end up when the final period is placed. Even if they’re flawed, it’s important to recognize their humanity. Without it, this whole medium fails to matter at all.
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