Film Review: Harold and Maude (1971)

Hal Ashby, a luminary of the New Hollywood movement, carved his name into cinema history with films that melded sharp social critique with offbeat humour. Though his later works—Shampoo (1975) and Being There (1979)—garnered immediate acclaim, it was his 1971 sophomore effort, Harold and Maude, that cemented his reputation as a director unafraid to court controversy. Initially dismissed by critics and audiences alike for its macabre whimsy, the film evolved into a cult classic, its legacy amplified by its fearless exploration of existential despair and generational dissonance. A product of its time yet timeless in its themes, Harold and Maude remains a testament to Ashby’s ability to find profundity in the absurd.

The screenplay, written by Colin Higgins—an Australian writer-director then completing his UCLA master’s thesis—imbues the narrative with anarchic wit. Higgins’ script, originally a student project, balances existential philosophy with slapstick comedy, a duality that initially baffled audiences. Its premise is deceptively simple: Harold Chasen (Bud Cort), a morose 20-year-old heir, stages elaborate fake suicides to torment his detached, aristocratic mother (Vivian Pickles). His morbid fascination with death leads him to frequent strangers’ funerals, where he encounters Maude (Ruth Gordon), a 79-year-old Holocaust survivor whose zest for life is as unorthodox as Harold’s obsession with mortality. Their unlikely bond, blossoming amid stolen cars and vandalised statues, forms the film’s emotional core, challenging societal norms with a gleeful irreverence.

At its heart, Harold and Maude subverts the traditional May-December romance, presenting a relationship that scandalised 1970s sensibilities. Harold’s attraction to Maude—a woman six decades his senior—transcends mere gerontophilia, instead symbolising a rejection of bourgeois conformity. Higgins, an openly gay man in an era of lingering prejudice, infuses the narrative with a queer sensibility, framing love as an act of defiance against arbitrary societal rules. Maude’s teachings—carpe diem aphorisms delivered with anarchic flair—liberate Harold from his nihilistic stupor, suggesting that life’s meaning lies not in passive existence but in rebellious engagement. Yet the film stops short of romanticising their union; Maude’s decision to end her life on her 80th birthday underscores her belief in autonomy, leaving Harold to confront mortality’s inevitability without her.

The film’s success hinges on its casting. Bud Cort’s portrayal of Harold—a gaunt, deadpan spectre in tailored suits—masters the art of tragicomedy. His stone-faced delivery during faux hangings and self-immolations juxtaposes absurdity with pathos, rendering Harold both pitiable and darkly hilarious. Ruth Gordon’s Maude, while undeniably spirited, occasionally veers into caricature; her elfin exuberance, though charming, risks overshadowing the character’s traumatic past. The true revelation is Vivian Pickles as Harold’s mother, whose glacial poise and passive-aggressive quips epitomise upper-class indifference. Her performance, nuanced and withering, elevates a one-dimensional role into a scathing indictment of parental neglect.

Harold and Maude’s anti-establishment ethos reflects its Vietnam-era context. General Victor Ball (Charles Tyner), Harold’s one-armed militaristic uncle, embodies institutional oppression, his office adorned with Nixon-era propaganda—a deliberate jab at the political establishment. The film’s climax, which sees Harold abandon his funereal attire for a countercultural tunic, feels less like organic character growth and more like a pandering nod to 1970s youth movements. Such heavy-handed symbolism, coupled with Ashby’s occasionally meandering pacing, dates the film, anchoring it to a specific cultural moment rather than universal themes.

Structurally, the film falters in its second act, padding runtime with repetitive gags—Harold’s suicide theatrics, though initially inventive, lose their edge through overuse. Similarly, the whimsical montages of Harold and Maude’s escapades (tree-planting, motorcycle joyrides) risk saccharine sentimentality. These lulls are buoyed, however, by Cat Stevens’ folk-rock soundtrack, whose melancholic melodies counterbalance the narrative’s whimsy with gravitas. While some dismiss the music as mere filler, Stevens’ lyrics (“If you want to sing out, sing out”) encapsulate the film’s ethos of self-liberation.

Despite its rocky debut, Harold and Maude’s cultural footprint expanded through Higgins’ 1973 stage adaptation, which globalised its message of nonconformity. Today, the film is celebrated not merely for its quirks but for its radical humanity—a reminder that joy and despair are two sides of the same coin. Ashby’s direction, Higgins’ script, and Cort’s performance coalesce into a work that is flawed, audacious, and ultimately transcendent. In an era of sanitised cinema, Harold and Maude remains a defiant ode to living—and dying—on one’s own terms.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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