#76 ‘Forrest Gump’
Shrimp, Sentiment, and the Slow March of American History as Told by a Man Who Doesn’t Understand It
Forrest Gump (1994) is a glossy, Oscar-slicked fairy tale wrapped in Americana, where history happens to people while one man with a low IQ and high luck stumbles through the 20th century like a well-meaning ghost. Directed by Robert Zemeckis and carried by Tom Hanks doing his most earnest “aw shucks” affectation, the film is beloved by boomers, weaponized by conservatives, and deeply suspicious of anyone with a protest sign or a uterus.
Hanks plays Forrest, a man with a learning disability and a heart of gold, who drifts through nearly every major historical event between the 1950s and the 1980s. Desegregation? Vietnam? Watergate? No problem—he just happens to be there, smiling softly, never questioning anything, always doing what he’s told. He becomes a football star, a war hero, a ping-pong prodigy, and a shrimp tycoon—because in Forrest Gump, the moral is clear: if you don’t question authority, think critically, or engage with the world in any meaningful way, you will be rewarded.
The film is obsessed with nostalgia, but not the complicated kind. It romanticizes a vision of America where the white, male, Southern everyman floats safely above conflict. Meanwhile, anyone who does engage with history—anyone who protests, struggles, or suffers—is punished. Jenny (Robin Wright), Forrest’s childhood friend and eventual martyr, is the film’s punching bag for the counterculture. She’s the avatar of feminism, drugs, sexual liberation, and trauma—and the film treats her like a cautionary tale wrapped in a halter top.
Jenny’s arc is tragic, yes—but it’s also deeply condescending. She’s abused, discarded, and pathologized, only to return to Forrest when she’s dying, as if the film can finally forgive her once she’s no longer inconvenient. Forrest gets a son and a legacy. Jenny gets AIDS and a grave. The message? Purity and obedience will save you. Questioning the system gets you dead.
The film’s portrayal of race isn’t offensive so much as absent. Black characters are background figures—servants, fellow soldiers, or historical stand-ins. The Civil Rights Movement is a visual cameo. There’s no interiority, no exploration, no voice—just a drive-by tour of suffering, narrated by a man who doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.
Technically, the film is impressive. Zemeckis uses CGI to weave Forrest into archival footage with seamless flair. Alan Silvestri’s score is sweeping, and the soundtrack is a boomer playlist designed to make you cry on cue. Hanks is committed—sweet, sincere, and totally swallowed by a character who, by design, cannot grow.
But at its core, Forrest Gump is a fable of anti-intellectualism. It rewards passivity, punishes rebellion, and turns trauma into a soft-focus montage. It’s not about resilience—it’s about obedience. The world changes, but Forrest doesn’t. And somehow, we’re supposed to believe that’s a virtue.
3 out of 5 running shoes
(One for the visual innovation. One for Hanks’ performance. One for the soundtrack doing most of the emotional labor. The missing stars? Buried under Jenny’s tombstone and every critique the film never had the guts to make.)
