Despite having grown up primarily in the 1990s, not the 1980s, I think I've drawn almost as much enjoyment from John Hughes' films as has the average white American 40-year-old. While not directly formative, they did give me something of an unexpected entrée into my early-teen-age flare of enthusiasm for filmgoing and filmmaking, which went dormant in college but recently came back with an obvious vengeance. Though I don't often pop any of it in these days, I've probably learned more from his work, though mostly by osmosis, than I (yet) have from (what I've seen of) that of Godard, Fellini and Resnais combined. He falls second to Savage Steve Holland as my favorite 80s teen filmmaker — as in, maker of teen films — but he richly deserves his place in that subpantheon.
Sixteen Candles (1984). I still consider this the quintessential illustration, in the character of Farmer Ted, of a certain kind of geek driven primarily by that special brand of directionless, high-voltage adolescent lust. (I actually knew a guy in ninth grade who was a behavioral dead ringer for Ted, and in appearance even paler.) Modulo that Thompson Twins song, this one leans only lightly on the trends of the time and thus comes off relatively timeless a quarter-century on. It's also got an endearing rough-edged amateurishness that one no longer sees in teen films.
"Who was it? Well, what did they want?"
"... sex."
The Breakfast Club (1985). The "best" Hughes, in terms of character delivery and general filmmaking acumen. Looking back, I find it leaves its core mission incomplete — the archetypes beneath which we're presumably meant to unearth nuanced people end the film as, well, slightly darker, more troubled archetypes — but I do appreciate that it wouldn't have us believe that the kids, aliens to one another at the beginning of the day, have somehow forged a social-strata-breaking bond by the end of it. Extra points for the surrealism of Emilio Estevez's jock inexplicably breaking that glass door and the creepily omniscient janitor (pictured in a hallway as "Man of the Year").
Weird Science (1985). I've got a soft spot for this movie, though that's most likely due to the prominence of vintage computer and other electronic technology. The premise of two undersexed dweebs creating Kelly LeBrock with nothing but a Trash-80 and a lightning storm is even flimsier than that of the mean 80s comedy — and that's saying something — so I shouldn't push the re-watchings too hard. It's a live-action cartoon, is what it is. Bonus points for Anthony Michael Hall pleading, "I don't toss off!"
Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986). More than the sum of its parts, though I think fans often miss that Ferris himself is not the central attraction. Like James Bond, he's rendered a featureless cipher by his slick perfection; would that he lost the occasional battle, in a nod toward realism as well as humanism. His cheerleader (I think) girlfriend is no more engaging. The whole thing works best as a tip-of-the-iceberg character study of Ferris' downtrodden longtime buddy Cameron, a nervous wreck raised by what are implied to be frigid and somewhat OCD parents. The story comes close to one of those tiresome tales of a party animal who saves the day by teaching others to cut loose once in a while, but I find that less grating than the now dispiritingly common narratives of young men who come to step up to the miserable plate of pedestrian responsibility. Bonus points for the phrase "It is so choice."
Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987). So lauded with critical praise already that I'm unsure what to add. As comedies qua comedies go, this is very close indeed to a Real Movie, and as such actually repays your time, if a comedy-comedy is what you have to watch. But I haven't quite come to terms with the ending, where John Candy's dopey shower curtain ring salesman confesses to Steve Martin's tightly-wound adman that his wife's been dead for years. (Spoilers.) Whether maudlin or masterfully pitched, it's another glimpse into the dark side that Hughes would have done well to explore. Here was a director born to make black comedies — he just got stuck with white ones, in multiple senses of the word.
She's Having a Baby (1988). Never quite knew what to make of this one, though I did catch segments of it on late-night TBS over and over and over again in high school. Rooted deeply in its era, I can't imagine it has much relevance to viewers without first- or secondhand experience of 80s yuppiehood. As I recall, a good deal of the action dominoes out from a woman's surreptitious abandonment of birth control, which would have been fertile ground, as it were, for the black-comedy Hughes we never had.
Uncle Buck (1989). Something of a retread of the caricature-turns-out-to-be-a-real-human-being seen in Breakfast Club and Planes. Especially Planes,
since the human in question also starts off as an slovenly, unwelcome
oaf portrayed by Candy. (He ends as Candy as well; Hughes wasn't David
Lynch.) Anachronistic even for its time, though I suspect Hughes'
professionalism brings it a cut above other Gauche Relative Visitation
movies.
Curly Sue (1991). I saw this one
theatrically and remember thinking the ten-year-old Alisan Porter
somewhat attractive — but remember, I was only seven myself. No longer
into older women, I'm not sure what would draw me back today. The
comedic pairing of Jim Belushi and a waif must have sounded like a dire
proposition going in, and I wouldn't blame Hughes for not bringing his
A game. In any case, he never returned to the directorial fold.
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