On paper, an empathetic film depicting teenagers who live with mental health issues finding their way out of their high school years, which can truly be hell, seems like something we might need right now. Unfortunately, Stephen Chbosky’s adaptation of the Tony-awarding-winning musical “Dear Evan Hansen” is not that movie. Frankly, the musical, with music and lyrics by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, and book by Steven Levenson, itself is where the fault lies. There were few redeemable qualities to begin with, and Chbosky’s dreary, washed-out direction adds nothing to its already bleak, vapid existence.
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We meet the titular Evan Hansen (Ben Platt) as he prepares for his first day of senior year of high school. He sports a large, white cast as he types a letter to himself on why this day will be a good day. An assignment from his therapist, the letter eventually spirals into a web of self-hatred. Later that day, while writing a new version of the letter to himself, this time with the creepy inclusion of his crush Zoe (Kaitlyn Dever), her misfit brother Connor (Colton Ryan) insists on signing his cast “so we can both pretend to have friends.” What seems like the beginning of a new friendship erupts in near violence when the unstable Connor sees his sister’s name included in Evan’s letter in the library’s printer. The next thing we know, Connor has died by suicide, and his parents Cynthia (Amy Adams) and Larry (Danny Pino) wrongly attribute the letter, which starts “Dear Evan Hansen,” as a suicide note written to Evan. Overwhelmed by the situation, what starts as a little white lie for grieving parents snowballs into a massive case of emotional manipulation and exploitation of a child’s death.
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When we first meet Connor in the high school hallway, someone casually describes his clothes – a stereotypical misfit kid all-black ensemble, with fingernails painted purple — as “school shooter chic,” which in turn causes Connor to rage. We get glimpses of how other people perceived him — his sister calls him a psycho, a monster, a bad person, and in the incredibly cruel song “Requiem,” she sings, “Cause when the villains fall, the kingdoms never weep.” This, to describe a teenager. A child.
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Later, Zoe casually reveals to Evan that their biological father died when she was one, but Connor remembers him. It’s never brought up again or even implied that his mental health and addiction issues may have stemmed from the early loss of his father, even though it is implied that Evan’s depression and social anxiety began after his father left when he was seven. Whether intentionally or not, the story sets up Connor’s struggles as bad because they led him to addiction, but Evan’s somehow are relatable, something to empathize with. Evan, whose actions feel more akin to a sociopath than an average person caught up in a situation over his head.
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The film attempts to explore further those who live with hidden mental health issues with Alana (Amandla Stenberg), a type-a school leader who may actually have been the only person who got Connor. Although her main song, “The Anonymous Ones,” has its heart in the right place, the treacly lyrics feel like the kind of hollow platitudes found on inspirational Instagram accounts. Staging the song by showing the opening pep rally from Alana’s point of view added a modicum of depth, though it left me wondering why every single character seems to get some agency except Connor.
The film never even bothers to let us know what exactly happened to him on his last day. It’s too busy exploiting his death for the character growth of others, just as Evan does.
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Calibrated as a showstopper moment, Evan tells his grand lie – that he and Connor were climbing trees together, and that’s how he broke his arm — through the song “You Will Be Found” at Connor’s memorial. The message of quote-un-quote hope goes viral, which Chbosky visualizes as thousands of reaction tweets, Instagram posts, and YouTube videos that eventually form a mosaic of Connor’s face. A smarter film would use this moment to satirize the faux connection these hollow gestures symbolize, but unfortunately, it’s clear this sequence is supposed to be earnest and possibly an attempt to be profound.
While the film’s missteps pile up as high as Evan’s lies, there are a few things that do work. Platt’s rich, emotive voice imbues the mediocre music with much deeper pathos than the songs deserve. Julianne Moore does the best she can with the thankless role of Evan’s mother, Heidi, whose life as a single parent with an erratic nursing schedule is weirdly contrasted with Adams’ stay-at-home mom as if being a working mother is inherently neglectful. While her rendition of “So Big / So Small” is raw and beautifully wrought, the lyrics fail the character and again imply that single parenting is a form of neglect.
However, these few bright lights can’t save the film from folding in on itself. While Platt’s physical embodiment of crippling anxiety is spot on, the film’s mental health treatment remains deeply problematic. It’s borderline irresponsible to use the death by suicide of a teenager as a coming of age moment for another. Name-dropping medications is fantastic, but when each character’s distinct diagnoses are barely acknowledged, and their depictions drip with cliches, it’s not a step forward. We do need more honest depictions of what it’s like for teenagers with mental health issues, unfortunately, “Dear Evan Hansen” does not represent progress, but rather it feels just as emotionally manipulative as the titular lead. [D-]
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