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
HELL NO,
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
EVERY SINGLE FUCKING FILMBLOG I CHECK
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.
UPDATE!!!
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!
