If you were to ask a cinephile to name a modern filmmaker who has shaped the coming-of-age genre, you would hear many say, Greta Gerwig. While her directorial filmography is limited, she has reframed the genre to explore beautifully messy yet authentic characters at all stages of their lives with the likes of Lady Bird (2017), Little Women (2019), and Barbie (2023).
The catalyst for this came from Noah Baumbach’s revered feature-length film, Frances Ha (2012), co-written and starring Gerwig herself, capturing lightning in a bottle with its eloquent examination of female friendships transitioning from young adulthood into full-fledged adulthood. Now, looking back at another collaboration, 2015’s Mistress America recaptures and elevates the illustrious narrative Baumbach and Gerwig formulated in Frances Ha, and remains a perfect execution of everything that encompasses the coming-of-age genre 10 years on.
There is a special type of magic that blossoms when they both take pen to paper, crafting fleshed-out characters that are almost plucked from the real world into the story, no matter how small their role may seem. In Mistress America, it radiantly emanates from the leading women. First-year college student Tracy Fishko (Lola Kirke) and self-proclaimed entrepreneur Brooke Cardinas (Gerwig) form a sudden and unconventional friendship, soon-to-be step-sisters. Set in the bustling New York City, Tracy is thrust into Brooke’s world in all of its excitement and dread, with both learning more about themselves than they’d care to admit.
The generic Hollywood definition of a coming-of-age film centers on a main character transitioning from childhood to adulthood, tackling everything that comes with their newfound responsibilities and expectations. The structure follows them as they make mistakes, rise above expectations, and ultimately grow. We’ve seen iterations of this formula in Legally Blonde (2001), Bend It Like Beckham (2002), and Agnes, Thongs and Perfect Snogging (2008).
Kirke’s portrayal of Tracy is your textbook main character, moving away from her small hometown to college life in a big city, now feeling isolated while trying to fit in with her peers. The desperation of wanting to be part of something larger than herself exudes from Tracy. From her need to be accepted into the literary society or her desire to be fawned after by classmate Tony (Matthew Shear), her longing makes it so palpable that this desperation leads to this powerful fixation on everything about Brooke.
Baumbach and Gerwig characterize the moral complexity of Tracy’s musing on Brooke for her literary piece in a way that is so imperfectly human. We watch as she toes the line between naivety and purposely destructive behavior, enabling Brooke in her every whim without consequences. This subverts a common expectation seen in coming-of-age films where our protagonists are depicted as innocent victims of social injustice from their peers, which catalyzes morally gray behavior rather than being morally gray to begin with, livening up the often predictable genre.
The lines blur between Tracy wanting to follow this fantastical narrative that she is crafting at Brooke’s expense and fitting in as an ‘adult’ by aiding in Brooke’s important life decisions that she is not equipped to comment on at this stage. Kirke intentionally leaves this all up in the air in her performance because what matters is her being confronted with the damaging weight of her actions (regardless of intention) and how she chooses to grow from it, if at all.
This is yet another trope turned on its head. The genre, in an attempt to send subliminal messaging to its impressionable young audience, leans towards having its characters do the “right thing” and become a “better person” by the end of the story. When confronted with Brooke at the very end of the film, she reiterates that she is not sorry for her actions, showing that perhaps she did not grow in the way we’d traditionally expect her to.
When we first hear Gerwig’s Brooke proclaim “Welcome to the Great White Way” as she slowly makes her way down the steps in Times Square, we witness the most vivid and faithful definition of who this woman is from the get-go. Her lack of self-awareness is evident in her strutting down with this perception of being well put together in her glamorous lifestyle, yet in actuality, it comes across as bumblingly awkward and messy. She does not have her life together in the slightest and does not have anyone to truthfully share her hardships with.
Brooke’s dream of opening a restaurant to become this central hub for the community to feel at home echoes her desire to fill this void in her life, much like Tracy. She needs Tracy as much as Tracy needs her. Baumbach casts a light, as he did in Frances Ha, upon the notion that this genre does not need to be about young people “coming-of-age” and that anyone can learn more about themselves at any stage of their lives.
Together, Kirke and Gerwig create a compelling dynamic that brings out both the best and worst of their characters’ traits. The loneliness that they share draws each other in, developing a sisterhood more real than the label soon to be assigned to them by their parents. However, Brooke’s heart-on-sleeve decision-making clashes with Tracy’s judgmental writer lens. Their friendship was never going to survive long term; it was only meant to be a catalyst in each other’s lives towards forming brighter and healthier relationships. The perfect definition of being exactly what they needed to be for exactly the right amount of time.
These non-linear arcs that both Brooke and Tracy embark upon are the icing on the cake of an already thought-provoking feature, defying each and every presumption for what it means to be a coming-of-age film.
There is something endearing about the way Baumbach writes Gerwig’s characters. Even though they are not immediately written to be hers, they have so much whimsy and hopefulness towards life and are sprinkled with self-deprecation now and again. It’s as if they were both at a “coming-of-age” portion of their lives whilst filming.
Their relationship off-screen bleeds into their work, and you can feel his admiration for the qualities she has, which is why she can embody them so well. He brings out the best in Gerwig on screen. The warmth radiated by her on screen is why I hold a special place in my heart for her acting over her directing.
While the lead characters are what the narrative orbits around, the supporting performances break up the intensity Tracy and Brooke share with one another. Shear’s Tony and Jasmine Cephas Jones’ Nicolette bring out a longing for romantic companionship within Tracy as she feels it should be her in a relationship with Tony. In contrast, for Brooke, Michael Chernus’ Dylan and Heather Lind’s Mamie-Claire represent a slice of adulthood that she struggles to reckon with, unsure whether to be jealous of it or relieved that this is not her life.
The comedic deliveries also break up this intensity, injecting some light-hearted reality to some of the film’s most confronting moments. At Dylan and Mamie-Claire’s house, where Brooke faces Tracy and her literary submission head-on, she yells, “I don’t give a shit because I am not a friend of Tennessee Williams,” which is such a visceral yet hilariously absurd reaction to Tracy’s explanation.
Similarly, when Tracy and Tony face off about her jealousy towards Nicolette, she says, “I’m the same, just the same in another direction now,” which, again, is said in the heat of the moment as a guttural reaction that, on paper, is a completely justifiable response to Tony but is delivered so extravagantly that it comes out as perfectly humorous. This is yet another example of Baumbach and Gerwig’s writing being the most authentic it could possibly be, tying a neat bow around this all-encompassing story.
Looking back at coming-of-age films released within the last 10 years, I see glimmers of Tracy in Hailee Steinfeld’s Nadine in The Edge of Seventeen (2016) and Kaitlyn Dever’s Amy in Booksmart (2019). I also see flickers of Brooke in Renate Reinsve’s Julie in The Worst Person in the World (2021) and Eva Victor’s Agnes in Sorry, Baby (2025). Mistress America’s redirection of the coming-of-age genre to be more messy and imperfect with a dash of humor can be seen so clearly today and should be remembered with awe and catharsis.
Retrospective Courtesy of Nandita Joshi
Feature Image Credit to Searchlight Pictures via MoMA
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