You probably missed American Animals in June when it hit theaters—starting in just four of them, in a limited run in New York and Los Angeles. But thanks to Amazon’s streaming service, the indie has a chance to reach the audience it deserves.
The film tells the true story of four male college students who, in December 2004, stole rare books worth millions of dollars from the library at Transylvania University in Lexington, Kentucky. On a visit to the library, the promising young art student Spencer Reinhard is struck by the beauty of a book displayed prominently in the special-collections room: John James Audubon’s The Birds of America. It is one of the most valuable books in the world; copies have sold for $8-12 million. Spencer casually mentions this to his impulsive childhood friend Warren Lipka, and while accounts differ as to which of the two guys is the Danny Ocean of this heist, they are soon working on a plan to steal the Audubon and other books.
They stake out the library, draw escape routes, and arrange covert meetings in New York and Amsterdam with people who might help them fence the stolen goods. Spencer and Warren bring aboard two other accomplices—students Eric Borsuk, the strategic brains of the operation, and Chas Allen, the getaway driver. While taking classes and studying for exams, the four start researching thefts—relying on Google and movies like The Thomas Crown Affair—and formulate a plan involving a gray minivan, elaborate old-man disguises, and a Taser.
The Taser is needed to overcome the greatest obstacle, logistically and morally, in their path: the librarian in charge of the rare books, Betty Jean “B. J.” Gooch (played by Ann Dowd). Three of the conspirators refuse to have anything to do with “neutralizing” or “eliminating” her—the men use vague and unspecific words to avoid confronting the truth of the violent act their whole enterprise depends on—so Warren promises to handle Gooch alone.
The “hows” of the heist—and what goes wrong to land the men in prison—make for entertaining and suspenseful viewing, but they take a back seat to the “whys.” Why would a talented art student, a star soccer player, a smart accounting major, and a kid who had bought his first rental property at 16 want to put their comfortable lives at risk? Critics have largely concluded that the movie is about upper-class privilege. Parents and teachers shielded the boys from life’s consequences, told them they were special, and next thing you know, little Johnny’s in lockup.
This isn’t quite wrong, but it is too simplistic. The movie is also a rumination on memory and purpose. In a master stroke, writer-director Bart Layton includes the real Spencer, Warren, Eric, and Chas in the film—so the four men comment on the story as it unfolds and interact surreally with the actors portraying them (respectively Barry Keoghan, Evan Peters, Jared Abrahamson, and Blake Jenner), as when an older, wiser real-life Spencer watches sadly as young “Spencer” drives past, unstoppable, to his ruin. The drama-documentary hybrid also lets Layton explore the ways memories have smudged over the last decade.
As to the big “why” question, after seven years in prison, all of the real-life thieves have had plenty of time to put words to their angst, but none of them seems able to explain his motivations well. All express remorse—especially for the terror and harm they inflicted on B. J. the librarian—but they can’t quite explain why they did what they did. Money doesn’t seem to have been the chief motivator; it is scarcely mentioned and never dreamed about.
Spencer comes closest to articulating what drove him. “Growing up, I had a desire for some kind of life-altering experience,” the real-life Spencer explains. The character Spencer makes a similar point early in the film, asking Warren whether he shares the feeling of “waiting for something to happen but you don’t know what it is? But it’s that thing that could make your life special?” Spencer had read about famous artists—including Audubon—who had to overcome great suffering for their work and he felt like they somehow understood more about life than he did.
For college-age Spencer, and perhaps the other three young men, with lives of moderate bourgeois success and frustration mapped out for them, the heist offered a forbidden opportunity for true greatness. American Animals is about the longing for such undefinable yet life-defining existential transformations—and the costs they can exact, both on others and on one’s own soul.
