Friday, August 7, 2009

Fuck John Hughes, the horse he rode in on, and the cavalry behind him

Before the hagiographical retrospectives and reminiscences of John Hughes and his movies begin (whoops, they’ve already started!), I just have to get this off my chest:

The creator of J. Danforth Quayle’s fave movie is dead, and The National Film Board of Ivanlandia says good riddance.

Boo-fucking-hoo, John Hughes is dead, and everywhere around the blogosphere filmgeeks are tripping over themselves to share tales of how much Hughes’ movies meant so much to so-and-so and such-and-such. (And
I’m not linking to that crap. Search for yourself if you’re stupid enough….)

His movies never meant anything to me except a movie conversation that I wasn’t interested in joining in the first place.

The National Lampoon Lactation movies never appealed to me (mainly because I’m not a Chevy Chase fan); The Breakfast Shlub was nauseating (especially the ending that turned quirky proto-punker Ally Sheedy into a boring suburban Stepford teen); with Ferris Bueller’s Jack Off,
I wanted to jump into the screen, tear out Matthew (drunk driver killer!) Broderick’s arms and beat him to death with them; and good God almighty, I had absolutely no interest in seeing Hughes’ attempts at kiddie porn like Gnome Alone and Curly Pubes.

Meanwhile, there’s a whole generation of young Americans (Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I’m looking at you!) who are in a state of arrested development as they try and create John Hughes moments in their lives. The stupid and ridiculous dodgeball phenom, anyone?

And who else out there thinks that a bunch of middle-aged critics waxing nostalgic about a filmmaker whose work they used to routinely criticize is disingenuous?

Sure, Hughes flicks must mean something to somebody (or else he wouldn’t have gotten so rich), but not to me, and I really can’t believe that all the blogonistas out there really give a shit.

But what do I know? By posting this I’m just adding fuel to the fire, right? Maybe, but lemme tell ya:
I had to post this just to get the rage out of my head. There I was, doing my usual morning routine/goofing off at the Day Job, and
is going “Boo-hoo-hoo! The guy who foisted Molly Ringworm on the world has passed from this mortal coil.”

Fuck that noise. John Hughes was an overrated hack who sold candy-coated “better” memories to people who were too dumb to realize that high school never mattered in the first place.

You know what? I’d rather sit through a Derek Jarman or Peter Greenaway film than a John Hughes movie—and those guys are the only filmmakers whose movies I walk out on regularly.

The fab Phil Nugent has posted a very thoughtful and ANGRY critique of John Spughes and his "films" that I simply must link to.
Check it out!


  1. Good buddy and former co-worker Eric D. sent me some comments over at Faceplant-book. I shall share them (not changing punctuation b/c I'm lazy, not because Eric is like e.e.cummings):

    It's hard to fathom that the same mind that gave us "my vagina" and "my penis" in NatLamp later gave us "sixteen candles" and the "home alone" franchise. i don't think hughes was untalented ("the breakfast club" is a great if not monumental film); it's just sad when talent that begins with such an edge is willingly and cynically distilled in search of the almighty dollar. the same can be said for ice cube... from "fuck the police" to "are we there yet"? are ya fuckin' kidding me?

    let JH fans warm their cockles with hughesian memories of adolescence the way it should have been instead of the way it was. that's what escapist claptrap like JH movies is for (mourning is always for the living and not the dead, anyway). me, i'll read some hughes from his glory days and remember a time when pieces like "MP" and "MV" helped me get through my own adolescence... the way it was... without having to worry about how it should be.

  2. Honesty is a sword to hack away the banality of the world.

    Blessings ~ Julian

  3. Oh Shit!!! The Tzar is RAGING!!! He's storming around the palace. Cabinet Ministers keep your heads down and avoid eye contact in order to escape liquidation.

    He speaks truth. In both The Breakfast Fart and Some Kind of Awful, we are told that it's OK to be different, awkward, and anti-social (Ally Shitty, Mary Stuart Masturdson). But then the script flips and they suddenly see the light and pretty up, thus finally fitting in. So the message is: It's OK to look and be different, but it's better if you just try to look normal!

    It's a cheat, I tell you!

  4. I'm glad someone else finds him overrated. He did have an understanding of teen angst when he made Sixteen Candles over and over again, aside from that he was just another Hollywood hack. He's also one of the people responsible for transforming NL from the satire mag for everybody into the coke-inspired male wish-fulfillment Spring break rag it's best known for. People also remember the funny parts of Sixteen Candles but forget the racism. Ferris Bueller was an asshole that reminded me of the people I hated in high school. I'd like Hughes better if he made "My Vagina' into a movie or 'Vacation' with the original ending where Disney gets shot. He had some impact on people our age (those born between 1965-1970) but not me.