You know that weird, prickly feeling when you realize your childhood is over and there’s absolutely no going back? It’s not a clean break. It’s messy. Ham on Rye, the 2019 directorial debut by Tyler Taormina, captures that specific brand of suburban dread better than almost any movie in the last decade. Honestly, calling it a "coming-of-age" film feels like a bit of a lie. It's more of a surrealist eulogy for youth.
It starts out feeling like a Richard Linklater film—all sun-drenched streets and kids in vintage clothes—but then it curdles. It becomes something else entirely. Something colder.
The plot, if you can even call it that, follows a massive ensemble of teenagers in an unnamed suburban town. They’re all getting dressed up. They’re nervous. They’re heading to a local deli called Monty’s for a mysterious rite of passage. If you’ve ever grown up in a town where "everyone just knows" the unwritten rules, this will feel eerily familiar. But in the world of the Ham on Rye film, those rules are literal, cosmic, and deeply unforgiving.
The Suburban Nightmare You Recognize
Suburbia in movies is usually one of two things: a white-picket-fence paradise or a dark, Blue Velvet style underbelly. Taormina does something different. He paints it as a stagnant pool.
The first half of the movie is incredibly dense. We meet dozens of characters. There’s no single protagonist to hold onto, which is a bold move that actually pays off because it makes the town itself the main character. You see the nerves. You see the awkward flirting. You see the weirdly specific fashion choices—polyester shirts and stiff slacks that look like they were pulled from a 1970s Sears catalog.
But then they get to the deli.
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The "ceremony" at Monty’s is where the movie shifts gears. It’s a slow-motion dance of selection. Some kids are chosen. Some are left behind. There’s no explanation for the criteria. It’s just... happening. The tension is thick, almost suffocating, because the stakes are never stated, yet you feel they are absolute. One moment you’re watching a quirky indie flick, and the next, you’re witnessing a ritualistic culling that feels more like The Lottery than The Breakfast Club.
Why the Ham on Rye Film Sticks in Your Brain
Most movies explain the "why." This one doesn't.
That lack of explanation is exactly why people are still talking about it years later. It mirrors the actual experience of growing up. Why did some of your high school friends become successful lawyers while others never left their parents' basement? Is it merit? Luck? Some unseen cosmic force? Taormina suggests it’s a bit of all three, and it’s mostly out of your control.
The cinematography by Carson Lund is spectacular. It uses long takes and a hazy, soft-focus aesthetic that makes everything feel like a half-remembered dream. Or a nightmare you can't quite wake up from. It’s nostalgic, but the nostalgia is weaponized against you.
The Split Narratives
The movie is essentially bifurcated.
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- Part One: The anticipation. The ritual. The bright colors.
- Part One (continued): The deli scene, which acts as the hinge of the entire story.
- Part Two: The aftermath. The "leftovers." The grey, decaying reality of those who didn't "make it."
This second half is devastating. The energy drains out of the film. The sun goes down. We follow the kids who weren't chosen, the ones who stay in the town as it slowly rots around them. They hang out in parking lots. They go to depressing house parties where no one is having fun. It’s a stark, brutal contrast to the vibrance of the morning.
A Masterclass in Sound and Atmosphere
Let’s talk about the sound design for a second. It’s incredible. The muffled conversations, the drone of suburban cicadas, and a soundtrack that feels like it’s being played through a thick layer of water. It adds to the "liminal space" aesthetic that has become so popular online lately. If you’re a fan of the "Backrooms" or "weirdcore" imagery, this movie is essentially the cinematic peak of that vibe.
The acting is also intentionally "off." Taormina used a mix of professional actors and non-professionals, including people he just found in the town where they filmed. This creates a stilted, uncanny valley effect. People don’t talk like movie characters; they talk like people who are reading from a script they don't fully understand. It’s brilliant.
The Meaning Behind the Madness
Some critics have pointed out that the Ham on Rye film is a metaphor for the death of the American Dream, or specifically, the death of the American suburb. When the ritual ends, the town feels empty. Not just physically empty, but spiritually hollowed out.
There’s a specific scene where the older generation—the parents and shopkeepers—just watch. They’ve been through it. They know the cost. They don't offer help; they just observe with a mix of pity and resignation. It suggests a cycle that can't be broken. You’re either part of the group that escapes, or you’re part of the scenery.
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Is it a horror movie? Sorta. Is it a comedy? In the darkest way possible. It’s "slacker noir" mixed with folk horror. Think Dazed and Confused directed by David Lynch on a shoe-string budget.
How to Actually Watch This Without Getting Confused
If you’re going to sit down and watch this, don’t expect a traditional three-act structure. You won't get one.
- Drop your expectations for a "hero." There isn't one. You're watching a collective experience.
- Pay attention to the background. The extras and the environment tell as much of the story as the main cast.
- Listen to the silence. The gaps in dialogue are where the real dread lives.
- Watch the credits. The names and the music at the end offer a final, lingering sense of melancholy that completes the experience.
Honestly, the Ham on Rye film isn't for everyone. If you want a movie where the bad guy gets caught and the protagonist learns a valuable lesson, stay away. This movie is for the people who still feel a twinge of sadness when they drive past their old high school. It’s for anyone who feels like they’re stuck in a town that forgot to keep moving.
It’s a vibe. A heavy, beautiful, terrifying vibe.
Actionable Takeaways for Cinephiles
If you find yourself haunted by the movie, here’s what you should do next to deepen your understanding of this "suburban surrealism" movement:
- Research the "Omnibus" style of filmmaking: Look into how Taormina and his collective, Carson Lund and the Factory 25 crew, approach low-budget production. They emphasize mood over traditional narrative logic.
- Explore Liminal Spaces: Search for photography and essays on liminality. The film is a textbook example of how physical spaces (like a deli or a park at night) can evoke psychological states.
- Watch Taormina's follow-up work: His 2024 film Christmas Eve in Miller's Point explores similar themes of family and community through a similarly stylized lens.
- Reflect on the "Ritual": Think about the real-world rituals we go through—graduation, prom, weddings—and ask yourself how much of our identity is sacrificed to fit into those boxes.
The movie ends not with a bang, but with a slow fade into the mundane. That’s the most realistic thing about it. Life doesn't usually end in a climax; it just continues until you realize you’re not the main character anymore.
To get the most out of it, watch it late at night. Alone. Turn off your phone. Let the weirdness wash over you. You might not like what you see, but you definitely won't forget it.