Where Dreams Die When Flower Crowns Fall: Welcome to the Dead Poet’s Society
The path to passions and why they fuel humanity
Written by Kate Reuscher, Culture Section Editor
I recently watched the critically acclaimed “Dead Poet’s Society” for the first time (I know, I’m late to the game). Going into it, the only thing I figured about this movie was that the beloved Robin Williams would probably capture my heart with his enthusiasm amid a twisted dark-academia aesthetic.
Captured, I was.
It’s powerful, thought-provoking, brooding, enigmatic, joyful and painfully frustrating all at once. As you watch a group of young, naive boys, you’re almost promised their journey will end in the fulfillment of their hopes and dreams. Yet, as they confront harsh realities of their very existence, they are forced to challenge everything they know, tempted to cross boundaries in the pursuit of life’s purpose.
Or, as it can be simply put, they “seize the day.”
But at Walton Academy, the boys are immersed in an environment where discipline is of highest value, and dreams are sacrificed for the sake of strict, traditional education. In this setting, it’s easy to view Neil Perry as just another product of a privileged, conformist society — his neatly pressed prep school uniform and his father’s relentless pressure to attend Harvard Medical School reinforcing the image of a young man bound as a byproduct of snobby societal expectations.
Perry proves he is anything but. Instead, he becomes a beacon of hope, clawing against the brick wall of his father’s rigid vision. This film becomes a platform to reveal that each boy is simply a boy coming of age, grappling with the complicated risk of forming their own beliefs.
With the help of John Keating, the inspirational history teacher played by Robin Williams, the boys loosen the ties on their school uniforms and bend the norms that their society is so hellbent on enforcing. They stand on tables and recite poetry, waltz around the courtyard to the beat of their own drums — all for the sake of individuality.
“O Captain, my Captain,” they call Mr. Keating. What begins as a beautiful nickname becomes a warning call to him, and eventually, a goodbye.
You see, Perry discovered a goldmine when digging for his passions. He was a talented actor, as many would say. Meanwhile, Todd Anderson, a boy of few words, revealed a depth of thought in his poetry. Together, the boys explore their passions for life and poetry late at night in the crevices of the forest, where they dance, gallop and express the meaning of life in boyish, naive ways. In these moments, they inspire each other in unexpected ways: Perry’s charismatic energy ignites confidence in Anderson, and his poetry shines through, while Anderson’s quiet support encourages Perry to pursue his passion for acting, his sheepish smile guiding Perry to the stage. Their bond — interpreted by some as platonic and by others as romantic — propels them forward on their shared journey of self-discovery.
This movie tugged at my passions in an uneasy yet familiar way, as if I found them again after they were kicked under the rug, bruised and dusty. It made me terribly miss my junior and senior year English classes, where conversation flowed and sticky notes waved like colorful flags on every page of my books. I missed the feeling of writing just for me. I missed picking up my journal each night and writing until words were cursive squiggles because my brain moved faster than my pen.
I missed acting — cherishing the moments I felt a hot spotlight illuminate my face. I missed the major of watching shows and seeing what I knew was months of tireless rehearsing culminate into two hours.
Most of all, I found myself missing the happiness I saw in Anderson and Perry. A quiet dread slowly descended upon me as I watched the movie, knowing deep down the themes of hope and dreams would eventually meet their fateful foil. I saw how everyone supported Perry except for his blood, which ultimately left blood on his father’s hands. I saw how Anderson broke through his quiet shell, screaming for Perry, only to be answered by the hollow whistling of the winter breeze. And I saw the soul-crushing feeling of wondering what our dreams ultimately cost us.
I understood what Mr. Keating meant when he said we don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. It’s really anything but. It’s raw and agonizing and pierces our hearts indefinitely. I know this movie did in every possible way for me.
“We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race,” he says. No wonder my hand has always gravitated toward the pen.