Remember being fourteen and convinced you were destined for artistic greatness? Writer/director Nicholas Colia certainly does, and his debut feature Griffin in Summer transforms that specific brand of adolescent hubris into something unexpectedly moving. While coming-of-age films can often feel manufactured for maximum relatability across the broadest spectrum, Colia has crafted something genuinely personal—a delightfully funny portrait of a theater-obsessed kid whose summer plans to mount his magnum opus get unexpectedly derailed by his first crush.

Griffin Nafly (Everett Blunck) isn’t your typical teen protagonist. This redheaded playwright describes his latest work as “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? meets American Beauty” and demands sixty-hour rehearsal weeks from his increasingly disinterested friends. He calls his mother (Melanie Lynskey, Lady of the Manor) by her first name (Helen). He treats his summer theater troupe like professional colleagues. His play, “Regrets of Autumn,” is a melodrama about marital disappointment that he approaches with Chekhov-level seriousness.

Then, twenty-five-year-old handyman Brad (Owen Teague, Montana Story) arrives to fix the fence, and Griffin’s carefully orchestrated world shifts.

Brad is everything Griffin thinks he wants to be: cool, tattooed, creative, adult. A failed Brooklyn performance artist now crashing with his parents, Brad carries quiet disappointments that Teague conveys with understated grace. The actor could have played Brad as either a fantasy figure or a cautionary tale, but instead grounds him in genuine vulnerability. Griffin’s enthusiasm for his grown-up muse becomes both inspiring and painful to witness, and Teague navigates that complexity beautifully. Their dynamic is brilliantly uneasy—never exploitative but always charged with volatility. It’s youth meeting unfulfilled potential. When Brad steps into a role in Griffin’s play, rehearsals become a minefield of unspoken tension and awkward revelations.

Blunck delivers a remarkable performance that could have easily slipped into insufferable territory. Griffin is manipulative, demanding, and often oblivious to others’ needs, yet Blunck finds vulnerability beneath the precocious exterior. His theatrical line readings crackle with precision. His physical comedy—nervous energy during conversations, awkward glances at Brad’s arms—reveals a boy grappling with feelings he can’t name. This isn’t a coming-out story but a coming-of-age tale that happens to involve a same-sex crush. Blunck navigates that distinction beautifully.

The supporting cast elevates every scene without competing for attention. Lynskey brings her signature warmth and exhaustion to Helen. She anchors the film in maternal weariness while shielding her son from her own struggles. Abby Ryder Fortson (Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret) shines as Kara, Griffin’s best friend and the play’s reluctant director. She’s torn between loyalty and typical teenage interests. The real scene-stealers are Griffin’s young castmates—particularly Johanna Colón. She delivers Griffin’s Tennessee Williams-esque dialogue with hilarious teenage earnestness, completely unaware of how absurdly adult it sounds.

Director Colia demonstrates remarkable confidence for a first-time filmmaker. His script could have easily mocked Griffin’s theatrical pretensions. Instead, it finds genuine affection for that particular brand of teenage seriousness we all remember. The film understands that when you’re fourteen, artistic passion feels like life or death. It treats that intensity with respect rather than condescension. Cinematographer Felipe Vara de Rey creates visual contrast between Griffin’s calm basement sanctuary and the blazing suburban summer outside. This subtly reinforces why this fair-skinned theater kid prefers crafting emotional landscapes for the stage to enduring actual sunshine.

What sets Griffin in Summer apart from countless other coming-of-age films is its specificity. This isn’t a generic teen discovering themselves—it’s a particular kind of ambitious, isolated young artist experiencing his first romantic awakening. Colia’s personal connection shows in every carefully observed detail. From Griffin’s theatrical vocabulary to his complex relationship with his distracted mother, authenticity permeates every scene. The film captures that universal experience of first love while remaining grounded in Griffin’s unique perspective.

But what lingers most is the emotional clarity. Colia captures the ache of first love not as a grand tragedy, but as a profoundly personal earthquake. Griffin’s obsession isn’t treated like a punchline or crisis—it just is. The climax avoids easy resolutions, forcing Griffin to confront the gap between fantasy and reality in ways that are both mortifying and necessary. His journey toward self-awareness comes through genuine consequence rather than gentle correction. Griffin’s private transformation will outlast the summer, built not just on romantic yearning but on the harder-won wisdom of learning when dreams and reality don’t align.

Griffin in Summer reminds us why the coming-of-age genre endures when handled with care and specificity. It’s funny, moving, and remarkably assured—a tender celebration of awkwardness, intensity, and the theater of growing up. If you’ve ever been fourteen, painfully earnest, and a little bit in love with someone you shouldn’t be, this one hits home.