Superbad (2007)

QFS No. 144 - The invitation for June 12, 2024
Last week we selected a somewhat abstract narrative art film from Southeast Asia. It only stands to reason that our next film should be a raunchy teen comedy, the likes of which are churned out regularly by Hollywood. I give you… Superbad.

I have, oddly, not seen Superbad. There is no reason for this other than perhaps I thought it was too silly to bother back then. But more likely, I was no longer the target audience when it came out seventeen years ago. Still, since it’s endured, I’ve wanted to see it. In part because the cast is superb – Jonah Hill (before he was slim and serious), Bill Hader (before he was a formidable auteur), Emma Stone (before she won two Oscars!) Seth Rogan (basically the same) and Michael Cera (also basically the same somehow).

Superbad feels like it has remained a worthy modern stupid comedy all these years later. Stupid comedies are the lifeblood of the industry – just look at Animal House (1978), to pick one school-related stupid comedy as an example. That has endured and is still referenced by at least a subset of the American public (men 45-75 years old). And with summer now starting, won’t it be something nice just to turn off the old noggin and watch a couple of nerdy teenagers just trying to do (super) bad things? I think so.

Anyway, join us to discuss Superbad!

Superbad (2007) Directed by Greg Mottola

Reactions and Analyses:
Is it possible that a film which includes a very long tangent about a 4th grader with an uncontrollable compulsion to doodle penis drawings can also be a film that has deep meaning about relationships, outward appearances, and observations about American society?

Yes. Somehow Superbad (2007) pulls this off.

Beneath all the vulgarity, the obsession with pornography, the underaged drinking, the cops behaving like children and the chaos throughout, Superbad has heart – just as the main characters Seth (Jonah Hill) and Evan (Michael Sera) do. In another era, Superbad (2007) would simply be a tale of high schoolers who set out to find booze for a party and comedy ensues and nothing more. (I dare you to find broader meaning Animal House, 1978). And on its surface, Superbad is that. But without too much digging, you can readily find some deeper themes and meaning.

Of course, the central love story in the film is between Seth and Evan. And in that story, we see one of the filmmakers’ themes that are a little less overt than the obvious – American males are incapable to expressing true emotion with each other unless their guards are down. The two high school best friends are going to miss each other next year and the film winds its way to show that they are undergoing separation anxiety.

Superbad is, among other things, a love story between Evan (Michael Cera) and Seth (Jonah Hill).

But we were interested as a group about why they are incapable of just coming out and saying that they’re going to miss each other. And I contend that the filmmakers are making a case about masculinity, that American males are unable to be emotionally open with another male. Alcohol, with its ability to release inhibitions, acts as the only facilitator for these kids (and adults) to actually talk to each other about how they’re feeling. The only way American men can be true with each other is with help, and that “help” is usually booze.

Finally, after about two-thirds of the way through the film, Seth and Evan have an extended argument and it comes out that Seth feels betrayed by Evan for enrolling in Dartmouth – even simply applying – because Seth isn’t going there for college and could never have gotten in anyway. It isn’t until a later scene when they’re both exhausted, drunk, and in sleeping bags next to each other that they can finally say that they love each other, and that they’ll miss each other.

So the movie is a breakup film and almost a romantic comedy about a platonic relationship between two young men. And the final way they can actually confess their love is when the illusion they present to the world has dissolved.

Finally, Seth reveals he’s upset with Evan and feels he’s being abandoned.

Later, when they’re both exhausted and have their guards down, they’re able to say they love each other.

And here is the second major theme – public persona and perception versus reality. Both Evan and Seth want to portray themselves as something they’re not. They want to show that they know how to party, that they can provide alcohol for everyone, and are part of the “in” crowd (even though no one can remember having seen them at a party before). They believe that sex is the most important thing in the world, and that having sex and being able to be good as sex is so vital before college. Illusions are a major part of Superbad.

The filmmakers here are also making a comment on American society as well. Seth and Evan are led to believe that the world will not accept them as who they are, therefore they have to pretend they are something else. Evan tries to show off for Becca (Martha MacIssac) by exaggerating their previous night’s adventures – which in reality were watching porn, shot-gunning beer, trying to get into a strip club – and tries to act “cool” but of course he’s incapable of it. Seth brags to Jules (Emma Stone) about being able to get alcohol but he needs Fogell/McLovin’ (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) and his ridiculous fake ID card - of course that fails. This illusion drives the two guys, that their ticket into the elites is providing alcohol and acting more important than you are.

Evan brags to Becca (Martha MacIsaac) about how much the guys party together.

But the night actually entails watching porn.

And drinking beer in a basement, followed by not getting into a strip club.

And here’s where the filmmakers are overt about their solution to this problem: be yourself. Seth eventually “wins over” (unclear, but at least as a friend) Jules and not because he got booze for the party like she asked. She doesn’t even drink alcohol. But she’s charmed by him – she saw his open vulnerable side when she caught him crying the previous night – and will even hang out with him at the mall the day after the party, even though he accidentally headbutted her and gave her a black eye the night before.

In that same scene, Evan reconnects with a hungover Becca. The night before she attempted to have sex with Evan but he objects to doing it while she’s drunk (even though Seth earlier in the film said “we can be that mistake!”) because she’ll regret it and won’t even remember. But it’s this act of earnestness that makes her realize he’s special and they go on an impromptu date at the mall to buy new comforters. He was his true self, not trying to put on a metaphoric mask in order to get laid before college because that’s what they were led to believe they needed to do.

Both of them act like themselves for the first time and are rewarded. Of course, this means that Seth and Evan have to awkwardly say goodbye to each other – still incapable of true emotion in public with each other – and they don’t know either to hug or to handshake. It’s a perfect moment. And here the filmmakers use perhaps the most artistic and cinematic sequence of shots in the film – the escalator, and the teeth on the steps separate the two platonic lovers as they go off their divergent paths , cleaving the two. It’s a perfect scene and ending of the film.

Seth looks back up at Evan from the escalator.

And Evan keeps his gaze on Seth, the two platonic lovers separated.

Further commentary about masculinity? Officer Slater (Bill Hader) and Officer Michales (Seth Rogan) and McLovin’s storyline. The cops are given the authority of a badge, and are given a license to behave like adolescent men. They can drink beers at a bar for free, raid parties, ignore responsibility, trash a police car and fire a gun in public at a stop sign with impunity. They’re living an adolescent dream, two men who were unable to be themselves when younger but now look who’s in charge? The kids you picked on are now the boss. Even all the penis drawings probably speak to this obsession with sex and masculinity that’s more about just a cavalcade of ludicrous penis drawings in what’s an otherwise seemingly superfluous tangent.

Setting aside all the actual commentary embedded in the film, Superbad is still, at its core, a comedy. Humor is subjective, and not everyone in the QFS group was taken by the antics depicted. But for me, the film made me laugh and I cringed whenever I had to witness the protagonists’ public awkwardness. In part because I didn’t want these two to look like idiots because I cared about them. (That cringe-inducing behavior was too much for some in the group.) I wanted Evan and Seth to succeed in bringing booze to minors at a party. Not because I felt like this was a great idea, but because I felt I knew an Evan and a Seth in high school. Cera and Hill’s performances are so excellent and spot on for the characters. The uncomfortable-in-my-own-skin feeling that Cera is able to bring in all of his performances work so excellently here.

Hill’s Seth, however, was more polarizing. While several in the group found him irredeemably off-putting, I had sympathy for him. He’s just a foul-mouthed, witty, overweight, awkward kid. And the reason I rooted for him can be found in an early scene. Seth and Evan walk out of a convenient store near the high school and Seth gets spit on Jesse (Scott Gerbacia), a bully who taunts him for no particular reason. That scene illustrated for me at least that Seth isn’t a kid who is all he claims to be, that he’s actually very low in that society and despises he’s at that level. I most craved for both to just be themselves because they were really funny and had a sweetness to them when they were just with each other and not putting on a social performance.

In Eight Grade (2018, QFS No. 19), Kayla (Elsie Fisher) tries to be something she’s not, as we watch her final week of eighth grade.

And the kids in Superbad all are attempting to be something they’re not, as we watch in their final few weeks of high school. (Obligatory shot of the famous McLovin’ fake ID.)

Several in the group were reminded of Eight Grade (2018, QFS No. 19), and there are a lot of parallels. Both take place at the end of the school year with a seismic life shift – Eight Grade of course is the end of middle school and Superbad is the end of high school into college. And while the humor in Eight Grade is rooted in a realism and Superbad is more on the screwball-comedy end of the spectrum, both feature sets of protagonists that are attempting to be something they are not, to project an image of importance or popularity. And both films root the stories in characters who seem realistic and familiar, because the emotions are true. Both films offer broader commentaries on American society, but in Superbad those commentaries are masked by the raunchy comedy the smothers the film. If you see past that (and past the avalanche of penis drawings), just as if you see past the illusion presented by Seth and Even, you can find that the film and the characters have something to say.

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

QFS No. 142 - The invitation for May 29, 2024
Time to curl up with a classic Hollywood movie. And The Philadelphia Story is about as classic as it comes. Jimmy Stewart? Check. Cary Grant?! Check. Katherine Hepburn?!? Check. The great George Cukor at the helm?!?! Check and mate.

I have never seen this film, which is a strange blind spot. The Philadelphia Story frequently comes up as one of the films of the era that has endured the test of time so I don’t have any explanation as to how I missed this in my viewing history.

George Cukor – you might recall from the QFS email about Gaslight (1944, QFS No. 106) that you likely have printed out and framed like you do with all of these – is one of the great workhorse elite Hollywood filmmakers of the day, eventually winning an Academy Award for 1964’s My Fair Lady. So you know it’s going to be a solid film even if you hadn’t already knew about it.

 So join me in seeing the iconic performers in the classic The Philadelphia Story and then join us in discussing it!

The Philadelphia Story (1940) Directed by George Cukor

Reactions and Analyses:
Do you need much of a plot if you have legendary actors and great dialogue? That question, or some version of that, dominated our discussion about The Philadelphia Story (1940). Comedy sometimes cannot transcend eras, but The Philadelphia Story is one of those films that continues to endure.

And why? This is not a cynical or facetious question – but what is it in a comedy that is funny more than 80 years ago that remains funny today? Physical comedy and slapstick can last beyond the time in which it was created – our December screening of the Marx Brothers’ A Night at the Opera (1935, QFS No. 132) illustrated that for us. But George Cukor’s comedy has really none of that physical comedy. And yet, throughout the film the dialogue and the performances are genuinely funny.

What do we hope happens in this story? That’s one of the main questions we had about The Philadelphia Story (1940).

At the same time, the plot of The Philadelphia Story is an afterthought. That’s not to say it’s devoid of one – it’s nominally about a wealthy bride (Katharine Hepburn as Tracy Samantha Lord) on her wedding weekend with the wedding coming up. So we have a timeframe, a clicking clock. Throw in a plot to infiltrate this high society with a “secret” photographer (Ruth Hussey as Liz Imbrie) and journalist (Jimmy Stewart as Mike Connor) writing a story for a gossip magazine – all facilitated by the woman’s ex-husband C.K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant).

But then, what is still the central tension? Is it this question who will Tracy marry? Or is it will Mike and Liz be found out as spies for Spy magazine? The latter gets dispelled rather quickly, so that’s not it. The former – well, that’s not really posed as a question until far later, when it’s clear that Tracy and Mike have some kind of a connection.

And the resolution – that her fiancé George (John Howard), unsure of Tracy’s moral rectitude, decides to leave her, Katharine returns to Dexter and gets “remarried” to him with the guests who should have been there when she first married him years ago.

Just writing all of that made my head spin. And so - is this why this is the quintessential screwball comedy?

One aspect of the film that people have rightly observed over the decades is class, and that came up in our discussion as well. A QFS member very astutely pointed out that this film is ultimately a very cynical take on class. George, the fiancé, has pulled himself up by his bootstraps from middle class (or poverty) into high society with Tracy and her family. But he is derided throughout the film from the start, with subtle jabs at his upbringing.

Take for example a simple scene early on, as pointed out by one of our members. George is at the stables with Tracy and the rest of her family. He is the only one who has trouble mounting a horse – presumably, he didn’t grow up with them on his estate – and everyone sort of laughs at him, even Uncle Willie (played with unnerving creepiness by Roland Young) rolls his eyes and says, “Hi ho, Silver” derisively.

George has difficulty mounting a horse, presumably because he didn’t spend his youth riding them.

Mike also is an outsider and appears to maybe connect with Tracy but in the end returns to a women more in line with in his class category.

Meanwhile, Dexter is still beloved by everyone except his ex-wife Tracy. Her sister, Dinah (Virginia Weidler) openly wishes he came to the wedding and when he does arrive at the house her mother (Mary Nash) can’t keep her hands off of him. This is a man, mind you, the very first scene of the movie we see of him shoving Tracy down physically with a palm to the face! But he’s forgiven by most and perhaps it’s because of a reason unsaid: he’s a member of the class and belongs with his kind.

Watching Jimmy Stewart (Mike) and Katharine Hepburn (Tracy) stone cold drunk is, if nothing else, reason enough to see The Philadelphia Story (1940).

Then comes Mike, played with Stewart’s uncanny everyman persona. He connects with Tracy and she finds depth in his writing and they are drunk and fall in lust or love or something. But even he – he of the working class – when it’s time at the end of the movie and he hastily proposes to Tracy, she rebuffs him.

The film seems to be saying – it’s all well and good to mingle between classes on some drunken weekend. But that’s all for fun because when it comes down to it you’ll get hitched to the one who is of your own kind.

This is a pretty stark take but it’s all there in the film. There seems no good reason to me, at least (and most of us) for Tracy to end up back with Dexter. Is it that Dexter has sobered up and has changed and she sees that? If that’s the case, it’s barely in the film’s narrative at all. Is it that Dexter now sees Tracy as not a goddess but as a human? That doesn’t come out either. If anything, Mike is closest to saying that Tracy has humanity and depth but even he treats her as if she’s this luminescent creature.

In the end, perhaps all of this ultimately doesn’t matter. Perhaps a loose plot is the maximum you need when you have legendary performers behaving badly. Jimmy Stewart is a downright fantastic alcoholic in this film, and Katharine Hepburn is no slouch either. You could do worse than watching ninety minutes straight of these two getting supremely sloshed and hamming it up on screen.

And perhaps, ultimately, that’s why this film has endured, what so many filmmakers today find this film unassailable as a romantic comedy. Maybe that’s all that matters in making a classic – a fun, slightly superficial, dastardly romp with the wealthy behaving in ways we imagine the wealthy to behave behind closed doors. Which is the exact assignment Mike and Liz were given in the first place. We, the audience, are the ones who actually get to see that story play out on screen in front of us.

A Night at the Opera (1935)

QFS No. 132 - The invitation for December 20, 2023
For our final 2023 selection, we’re going to a holiday classic!

Okay fine, so it’s not exactly a holiday classic, but doesn’t this time of year seem like a perfect opportunity to watch a Marx Brothers film? We haven’t yet selected a film by the comedy legends, and A Night at the Opera is widely known as one of their best films.

I know I’ve seen parts of many of their movies, but I believe I’ve only seen Duck Soup (1933) from start to finish. I have a feeling the redeeming artistic value of this movie might be minimal. But movies are a lot of things – and sometimes they’re just pure entertainment. Comedies are difficult and require so much technical skill, so it should be fun to take a closer look at how they pull of the perfect banana cream pie toss.

And with the holiday break and kids are off of school, this might be a fun one to watch with them for all the gags and mayhem and the answer to difficult trivia questions. For example – can you name all of the Marx Brothers? I got three out of five (answers below)*.

So join us for the final QFS of 2023. I’d love to do more before the calendar turns, but wouldn’t you know it? The strike ended and now there is finally directing work. It’s back to the TV mill for me, hence there will be some pauses coming up for the movie group.

Enjoy A Night at the Opera as we wrap up QFS for 2023!

*Chico, Harpo, Groucho, Gummo and Zeppo. I totally missed Chico and Gummo, in part because Gummo was not in any movies. I have no excuse for missing Chico.

A Night at the Opera (1935) Directed by Sam Wood

Reactions and Analyses:
Comedy doesn’t always transcend eras. Some can be very specific to the time in which it was created, with cultural references or styles of speaking that become outdated. The Marx Brothers are among those who have managed to create works of comedy that endures beyond their lifetimes.

True, in A Night at the Opera (1935), there are minor handful of contemporary jokes lost on modern audiences. But even in those – such as the one about “quintuplets up in Canada” – the content of the joke itself may not have lasted, but the delivery and Otis B. Driftwood (Groucho Marx)’s reaction and delivery of the line still gets a laugh: “Well, I wouldn't know about that; I haven't been in Canada in years.”

Any discussion about A Night of the Opera is going to center on the Marx Brothers, of course, because when you get down to it, that’s really primarily what the movie is – a launching point for their comedy. Much of our discussion was about the brothers and almost no talk about the plot or the filmmaking. Which is the point; it is, after all, a Marx Brothers movie.

The cabin-filling sequence in A Night at the Opera (1933) is peak Marx Brothers.

In addition to Groucho’s near-perfect, constant one-liner deliveries, the Marx Brothers are simply the greatest agents of chaos in movie history. Throw them into any situation, and that’s what you get – chaos. That’s the hallmark of a Marx Brothers movie. The difference, perhaps, in this film is with the inclusion of some musical numbers, the attempt at a love story, and only minor social commentary (as opposed to the more direct commentary in Duck Soup, 1933)

Several QFS members pointed out how one can see their influence on future comedians - Martin Short came to mind, the magic of Penn and Teller, and even Mel Brooks. Rodney Dangerfield is the clearest heir to Groucho Marx we could think of and the discovery of that delighted me immensely.

One QFSer felt less sanguine about the film, that it was repetitive and there wasn’t a story – as compared to a Charlie Chaplin film, for example. Chaplin’s films, though often featuring the same Tramp character, had a strong storyline, a social commentary, pathos, and of course groundbreaking visual comedy and sight gags. Marx Brothers movies, however, were merely a way to setup the Marx Brothers wreaking havoc in a straight world around them. Both are funny, both have endured, and both have stood the test of time. Where Chaplin used artistry to enhance his comedy, the Marx Brothers relied on their on-screen personas and vaudevillian skills to enhance theirs.

One way of thinking about this, to me, is there are movies that are funny (Chaplin’s Modern Times, 1936) and there are funny movies (A Night at the Opera). Movies that are funny are films with a compelling driving narrative that’s told in a funny and artful way. Funny movies are comedies that favor humor and gags above the plot and storyline. This is an utterly unsophisticated way of putting this, but a distinction between styles of films that make audiences laugh is worth considering. How do you make someone laugh? There’s no one way and the differences between how Chaplain does it and the Marx Brothers do it provide some insight into that. A deep dive into this comedy would be, of course, a lot of fun.

Generally speaking, the group agreed that though the plot was thin and perhaps unnecessary even, this is a film that you can probably just pick up at any point and simply enjoy the gags – the absurd amount of people in the cabin, the disappearing beds, the contract negotiation, the final opera, and so on. Perhaps a funny movie doesn’t need to be much more than that.

Planes, Trains and Automobies (1987)

QFS No. 129 - The invitation for November 22, 2023
John Hughes is one of my all-time favorite filmmakers and, I dare say, one of the reasons I wanted to become one myself. The only reason we haven’t selected one of his movies yet is that I have seen basically all of them – especially the ones he directed. There are a few he wrote that I haven’t yet seen, but truly it’s hard to remember a time when I hadn’t seen a John Hughes film.

While he wrote and produced a ton, he only directed eight movies.** Most of those eight have withstood the test of time and to talk about Hughes is to talk in superlatives. There might be no better movie about ditching school and having a dream day than Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) – easily one of my favorite films of all time, one that takes on a mythic status for kids who grew up near the city of Chicago. The Breakfast Club (1985) is class struggle as told through high school and has never been topped. Sixteen Candles (1984) is a defining movie of the 1980s coming-of-age subgenre and Weird Science (1985) is a true teen boy’s dream film. Uncle Buck (1989), though perhaps on the second tier of his work, is one of the great John Candy performances of all time – topped only by this week’s selection.

And that’s only his directing work. He produced a ton of films and also wrote ones he didn’t direct, including National Lampoon’s Vacation (1983) – probably the most quoted road-trip movie of all time – and Home Alone (1990), which exploded across the screens when it came out and remains arguably one of the greatest Christmas films ever made.

Which brings me to this week’s selection. Planes, Trains and Automobiles is one of those films that, when you came across it on television back when we used to channel surf, you had to just sit down and watch it. It sucks you in. A prefect odd couple road trip movie, set just before Thanksgiving with two men trying to get to Chicago in time for the family dinner. Steve Martin as his strait-laced uncomfortable best; John Candy in a performance has depth and heart that undergirds the sweet annoying comedic veneer. Consider that this and Midnight Run (1988, QFS No. 64) came out within one year of each other – two classic odd couple road trip films that are up there with some of the great comedies of all time. Well, that’s pretty terrific.

John Hughes was great at setting up a finish line, a destination or an event that the film was building up towards. In Ferris Bueller’s Day Off it’s the end of the school day. In Some Kind of Wonderful (1985) directed by Howie Deutch, it’s the prom. In Vacation, it’s getting to Wally World. Here, it’s Thanksgiving, just over the horizon, Chicago as the film’s Oz. Hughes was a master of mainstream storytelling, but with depth and heart. He just knew how to make his comedies feel somehow meaningful in a bigger way but simple and grounded. I once worked with Howie Deutch, one of his long-time partners, so I have a few fun stories I remember that I’ll try to share in the film chat.

So watch (or rewatch for the 523rd time) Planes, Trains and Automobiles and join us to chat about it. I have two extra tickets to go see it at the New Beverly on Tuesday, so hit me up if you want one. This is going to be a great one to see with a crowd.

It’ll be our last group chat for a couple weeks, so I hope you’ll be able to join on Thanksgiving Eve and discuss what we’re grateful for – which hopefully includes the work of John Hughes. See you then!

*Low bar, I know. I can’t think of an actual “Thanksgiving movie” but this one comes close, even though I’d call it a buddy picture-road trip movie more than a Thanksgiving movie. Scent of a Woman (1992) could arguably make the same claim, but that too is a sort of road trip movie over Thanksgiving weekend. 

**This surprised me, given his outsized influence on the 1980s in general and my childhood in particular.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987) Directed by John Hughes

Reactions and Analyses:
I have seen Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987) so many times it’s virtually impossible to remember a time when I didn’t know every word of the film. Not only because I love the movie, but also I grew up in a time when it would rerun on television quite a bit, and when it did I was powerless but to sit down and watch it. But I had never seen it in the theater before – I would’ve been a tad too young in 1987 to see this one when it came out – so when it appeared on the New Beverly calendar during Thanksgiving week, I had to take the chance to see it. And since we hadn’t selected any of John Hughes’ work for QFS, an opportunity for an in-person viewing for an online discussion was one we couldn’t pass up.

At its core, Planes, Trains and Automobiles is a story about class. Hughes says it himself in this terrific oral history of the making of the film published by Vanity Fair November 2022:

I like taking dissimilar people, putting them together, and finding what’s common to us all. Part of the point is there are a privileged few who operate between New York and Los Angeles or London and Paris. But if something screws up and they get off the exclusive track, it’s someone like Del Griffith who knows how to get them home. What kept the movie going was the opposites—two dissimilar guys. If it weren’t for a storm, someone like Neal Page would never meet a guy like Del.

We see this in so many of his films, most notably The Breakfast Club (1985), where students from different social classes are forced to meet and work together. It struck us in the group that there is no current filmmaker filling this role, as it pertains to class, at least no one that comes to mind. And definitely no one doing it as authentically as Hughes – perhaps Harold Ramis and John Landis come close. Frank Capra is the one who probably came closest to Hughes forty years earlier. The Capra comparison is probably most apt, though I’d argue that Hughes seasons his happy endings with a little bittersweetness whereas Capra I’d say applies a little syrup.

And in many ways, Planes, Trains and Automobiles is entirely about class privilege. Neal (Steve Martin) can usually skate by with his wealth and status, but right away, his first indignity, is having to take a city bus to the airport. His next one is being denied his rightful place in first class. Until his credit cards burn to a crisp in the car fire, he’s able to rely completely without physical cash whereas Del Griffith (John Candy) has to count every coin and needs to use his wits (shower rings as earrings!) to scrape together additional cash. And its upon Del that Neal depends – he sees the benefit of kindness and being content with your true self. And Neal, too, by eventually coming around and seeing Del’s innate kindness, gets Del to finally admit that his wife is dead and he has no place to really go home to.

Neal and Del in Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987) Directed by John Hughes

The beauty in this film (and perhaps all of Hughes’ work) is that no person is all one thing – Del is not all annoying; Neil isn’t just a jerk. They’re humans, with flaws, but with several dimensions to them (The Breakfast Club does this particularly well… and you can argue that Ferris in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, 1986, is the one Hughes character that’s less flawed than his other characters). And it’s through Hughes’ writing and casting that he’s able to make this happen. Few people humanize and cast “real” seeming people like Hughes can, and for a moment let’s set aside the obvious goofy charm of John Candy in this legendary performance. Look at all the other minor characters in the film – they’re all incredibly quirky but they feel fully real, fully human. Owen who takes them to Wichita (Dylan Baker), Edie McClurg as the rental car agent with probably the greatest button to a scene you can have, long-time character actor Larry Hankin as “Doobie” the cab driver, the hotel clerk (Martin Ferrero), Michael Mckean as the cop who pulls them over – all feel “real” (with Ferris Bueller’s Day Off as probably the best example of this, but you can see it in this film as well). Hughes’ world feels like our world because it’s populated by real people. Compare this with, say, the Farrelly Brothers or even the Coen Brothers who rely more upon caricatures and quirk than humanity.

There are so many scenes that come to mind, aside from the profanity laden minute-long rant by Neal, which of course is legendary as the only reason the movie receives and “R” rating. The first time Neal talks with Del in the airport. When they’re on the plane together. The first Neal rant in the hotel is so eviscerating and bitterly hilarious that I had forgotten it happens so early in the film. The car burning down and then them driving it, and in particular the scene when they’re pulled over - which is a scene that makes me laugh just thinking about it.

Watching this again, I argued that some of the 1980s cheesiness doesn’t hold up but much - the use of still frames and sappy music in particular. That didn’t bother the rest of the group. For me,it’s this scene that feels definitely of its time: when Neal verbally tears into Del at the hotel, Del is deeply hurt as he takes it in stride, but he’s also self-aware of his personal flaws. At that moment, the music comes in and for my taste, this lays it on too much. John Candy is so good, so empathetic in his performance in that scene that for me, the music is unnecessary. Hughes uses it and, for the time, would definitely be in line with the practices of a mainstream film. The ending montage of Neal piecing together that Del has been lying about his wife and home as a similar feeling of maybe a touch out of date. But yet, it still is an effective way of being in Neal’s mind at that time. And the conclusion of the film, though satisfying, lays it on thick. Long live the ’80s!

That is to say, much of the film still retains an emotional gravity, especially given that it’s a comedy. When Neal later in the film is able to pay for a hotel room by batering his fancy watch, Del can’t do the same (despite having a Casio) and is stuck in the burnt out car. Neal looks out the window - and again, he’s not just a jerk, he’s just wound tight - he relents and asks Del to come inside and stay with him. It’s sweet and still pretty moving, given how many times I’ve seen the film.

A final note on my attachment to Hughes - he’ s a fellow Chicagoan. What this meant for me, growing up near Chicago when his movies came out, is that he captured a feeling of the city as a place that felt like the center of the world (with Ferris Buller’s Day Off being the prime example - they literally treat Chicago as their playground and hallowed escape from the drudgery of high school). The city was the center of my world, to be sure, and I was surprised when I got older and found out that Hughes’ movies set in and around Chicago was an outlier, not the norm.

From Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987) Directed by John Hughes. I’m required by Chicagoan law to tell you that this skyline is fiction. There’s no view of the Chicago skyline like this off of that expressway in Chicago.

But being from the Midwest more broadly I think informs Hughes’ filmmaking as well. He writes about people that were familiar to him, about people he likely grew up around. It’s dangerous, of course, to generalize about a people of a paritcular region, but I always found that there are some common traits in the people I grew up with: unpretentious, generally kind, would bristle against injustice, and yes, you would run into someone like Del Griffith - chatty, no filter, unable to turn it off, generous to their core. And you’d also find people like Neal Page - prickly, uncomfortable in their own skin, but deep inside are reluctantly kind. Hughes captures these people in all their glory, throws them together, and creates true and earnest portrayals of humans in a way that we need to have return to big screens now and forever.

The Player (1992)

QFS No. 123 - The invitation for October 4, 2023
The Player will be our first selection from the works of master Robert Altman since way back in 2000 with one of our early QFS selections, McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971, QFS No. 11). Unlike the Western setting of that film, The Player storyline takes place and is set in Hollywood.

 I know the basic setting and concept only from people who have told me about the movie because … I have never seen this film. This admission is usually met with the following response: What – but you work in the film industry! Yes, dingbat, I know that and yes, you’re right, it’s borderline shameful I haven’t seen it. I have no excuse, though I have attempted but failed over the years to remedy this problem by finally seeing it, including at numerous local theatrical screenings that I’ve missed for one reason or another.

Which is why I’m excited to see this now and discuss with you! I’m also curious to know what 1990s Hollywood thought about working in 1990s Hollywood and what it’s like to be working in that same industry 33 years later. I remain a big fan of Mr. Altman’s filmmaking and this is a major gap in my knowledge of his work that will soon be addressed.

The Player (1992) Directed by Robert Altman

Reactions and Analyses:
As someone who works in the film business - as do most people in the QFS discussion group - I was struck how deeply cynical The Player (1992) is. I shouldn’t have been; the spirit of the film reflects what was almost certainly Robert Altman’s perception of the industry at this point in his career.

Altman comes to prominence in the 1970s with the great wave of American auteurs and finds critical acclaim for his films, especially Nashville (1975), MASH (1970), The Long Goodbye (1973) and McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971). These films all feature his voice as a filmmaker, with long fluid camera movement and at times a documentary-type approach to dialogue and interaction between the characters in the film.

But then, in 1980, he directs Popeye (1980) which utterly bombs in the box office. You could see the aftershocks int he 1980s - Altman has a long string of unremarkable films. Or at least films that have not endured the way his other films have. While other ’70s auteurs, like Martin Scorsese, Alan Pakula, Francis Ford Coppola, Brian De Palma find their way with bigger budgets and films - not to mention George Lucas and Steven Spielberg - it’s Altman who is likely up against forces attempting to curtain his maverick spirit. He’s coming up against corporate filmmaking and isn’t really able to break through.

Until he makes The Player, ironically, in 1992. His scathing indictment of the Hollywood system is the film that actually brings him back into the Hollywood fold. As one member of the QFS discussion group posited - this is a really bad movie about making really bad movies.

Personally, I don’t think it’s a really bad movie but it’s definitely a movie that skewers movie conventions. It’s spoofs crime movies, romance movies, thrillers, and of course - the repeated take down of the long-standing complaint of filmmakers everywhere: Hollywood’s desire for a happy ending. The nearly eight-minute opening shot is of course often discussed - a continuous tracking shot complete with zooms gives allows us to spy. We listen in through windows or walk-and-talking conversations about movies, film gossip, and truly terrible script pitches. The Graduate 2, pitched by the writer of The Graduate (1968), Buck Henry, is straight-up genius. It sets up the gossipy world we’re about to enter and is reminiscent of the terrific camera work that’s a hallmark of all Altman’s films. I was particularly reminded of Nashville, another exploration of an entertainment industry but with a less acerbic tone.

Part of the nearly eight-minute long opening shot from The Player (1992) Directed by Robert Altman

But back to Hollywood’s ubiquitous desire for happy endings - this is probably Altman’s biggest gripe and obviously the thing he never really does in his films. They usually end with something ambiguous or even tragic, as in McCabe & Mrs. Miller or bittersweet and off-kilter as in The Long Goodbye. Here, to achieve his happy ending, it’s all satire. Tim Robbins as “Griffin Mill” is struggling to keep his prominence in the studio, fighting the upstart Peter Gallagher (“Larry Levy”). He’s being stalked, then kills someone. He’s then suspected of murder. Then runs from the law. Then is caught. But then a year later, he’s running the studio. And gets the girl. It’s searing and brutal what Altman is saying here - immoral psychopaths run the film business. Altman has claimed this is light satire, but this feels more like a brutal takedown and indictment.

The fascinating thing about this movie is the abundance of cameos. It features the most amount of Oscar nominees in a single film - because they’re all playing themselves. Except then you get Whoopie Goldberg (“Detective Susan Avery”) who shows up and is holding an Oscar in her first scene - but she’s not playing herself, an Oscar winner and former host. It’s just on the edge of being too cute for its own good.

Flowers and the perfect life crowd the frame in the final shot of The Player (1992), a parody of Hollywood’s desire for happy endings.

Shameless people who will suffer no consequences - if this ever was a film for the #metoo era, or to show the conditions that bring about people who act without fear of repercussions, this is it. It was particularly unnerving to watch this during the WGA strike - not only does a studio executive actually murder someone, but there is another studio executive (Larry Levy) who comes up with a story idea just by reading the paper and says writers can be eliminated. Despite being definitely a product of the early 1990s - as evidenced by the phones and in-car fax - it is more than relevant for today in that respect.

The entire film is worth it to see the payoff of Habeas Corpus coming together and basically doing all the things that the director claimed they wouldn’t do - sell out and make it commercial. The fact that they have Bruce Willis, who is probably in the top 3 greatest action stars in the world at this time along with rising star Julia Roberts in this fake movie within the movie is truly fantastic. And the movie is so bad that it’s perfect for the “light satire” Altman wants to portray here.

How Green Was My Valley (1941)

QFS No. 121 - The invitation for September 6, 2023
We return to legendary John Ford, last seen in 2020 for QFS No. 26 with his Young Mr. Lincoln (1939), a film he made two years earlier than this week’s selection. The great American filmmaker turns his gaze outside the US in a film that won five Academy Awards including Best Picture. But to me it has always been known as “the film that beat out Citizen Kane (1941).”

Perhaps that’s why it’s taken me so long to actually sit down and watch this movie. I’m sure I’ll be upset that How Green Was My Valley is inferior in its filmmaking to Orson Welles’ masterpiece, right? Citizen Kane has endured the test of time, gathering momentum over the 20th Century as arguably the greatest film ever made. Or at least one of them. Whereas How Green Was My Valley is probably most remembered for beating out Citizen Kane and The Maltese Falcon for Best Picture and for being one of John Ford’s 10 best films.

But Ford’s film batting average puts him in the directing hall of fame. He has a very very high percentage of excellence in his moviemaking, so I’m quite certain this will live up to expectations of a John Ford film. Also – and this is perhaps the best part of this week’s selection – the star of How Green Was My Valley is Walter Pidgeon, who was last seen in the 23rd Century as Dr. Morbius in Forbidden Planet (1956, QFS No. 119). So I’m going into this film considering it a Dr. Morbius origin story, before his brain capacity was expanded.

Join us in honoring the labor movement by seeing How Green Was My Valley over Labor Day weekend. See you then, comrade!

How Green Was My Valley (1941) Directed by John Ford

Reactions and Analyses:
How Green Was My Valley (1941) is the origin point of the immigrant journey. The village, provincial with generation after generation living in the same place, are dependent on a coal mine. The fate of that coal mine determines the fate of the people who live there. Eventually, men and women become faced with a choice - live as their ancestors have in a valley that’s steadily dying, or leave to greener pastures. (Note - “greener.”)

I was struck while I was watching How Green Was My Valley that this film could very easily have been adapted to India, from where my parents immigrated. I know others in the QFS group felt that it could’ve been from where their family original came from as well. There’s a universality to it that endures even now.

It’s a wonder how this film has been lost among John Ford’s others and has been overshadowed by Citizen Kane (1941). As mentioned above, I went into this film with the knowledge that it beat Orson Welles’ masterpiece for Best Picture at the Oscars. So comparing the two is inevitable so let’s take a moment to do so.

Why has Citizen Kane endured while How Green Was My Valley has less so? The group discussed this at length, but let me start with my takeaway between the two. How Green Was My Valley is beautiful, emotional and sentimental. It’s a story that feels specific to the characters but also universal in its emotional appeal, doing what cinema does best. Citizen Kane feels more intellectual, an exploration into the meaning of one specific life of fame, prestige and meaning. It’s perhaps deeper into its dive into the human condition in a way. It’s easy for me to see how Citizen Kane would influence the next generation of auteurs; Welles’ directing is the hand of an artist, using the cinematic tools to push the visual image and storytelling techniques to new places.

The steel mill looms over everything in How Green Was My Valley (1941) Directed by John Ford.

Ford’s hand in How Green Was My Valley is characteristically invisible - you don’t feel the overt hand of the director. It’s there, for sure - Ford is using all his skill to tell this story in the way he knows how. But his way is less overt, letting the characters, the story, and the more traditional cinematography doing the talking.

Other QFSers in the group felt like Citizen Kane is complicated and feels “important” in a way that you’re told something is important. Whereas How Green Was My Valley is just a good, solid story created in a way that you’re guided along the narrative and live with the people in this town as if you’re one of them. Citizen Kane - you’re kept at arm’s length. And this is, in part, Welles’ design - Charles Kane is an enigma that we’re unravelling in the film. Ford has us as a member of this village, rooted in Huw’s story (played by Roddy McDowell). We don’t even go up into the mine atop the hill until Huw does very late in the film.

How Green Was My Valley stands on its own as opposed to being the historic foil to Citizen Kane at the Oscars. In many ways, the bigger upset at those Oscars was that Gregg Toland’s astonishing and groundbreaking cinematography from Citizen Kane lost to Arthur C. Miller’s in this film.

In any event, How Green Was My Valley should instead be compared to Ford’s other films. There is no one like Ford in placing humans against vast landscapes. From the very opening, you see humans set against the large world around them, the hills rolling in the distance. Wide vistas with men in foregrounds and mid-grounds. The looming presence of the mill always hovering about the town, a clear symbol of dominance told visually.

Coal miners hoping for work in How Green Was My Valley (1941).

Echoes of Ford’s word abound in How Green Was My Valley. Stagecoach (1939), Rio Grande (1950) and The Searchers (1956) come to mind seeing these Welsh landscapes. The Searchers in particular. Ford uses dark interiors with low ceilings that open up into the vastness of the exteriors - that’s done here throughout, but is of course legendary in the opening shot from The Searchers. Then for the story, you can see The Grapes of Wrath (1940) clearly in the pathos of the characters, their circumstances and being at the mercy of a faceless industry or corporation. Even Ma Joad (Jane Darwell) is analogous to Mrs. Morgan (Sara Allgood), long-suffering but spirited mothers trying to keep the family afloat. You can even find a man walking along the horizon in How Green Was My Valley in the way Ford shows Henry Fonda as Abraham Lincoln in Young Mr. Lincoln - where the preacher Mr. Gruffydd (Walter Pidgeon) has the nearly identical righteousness as Fonda’s Lincoln.

Similar use of horizon and vistas across John Ford’s films - left to right: Young Mr. Lincoln (1939), How Green Was My Valley (1941), The Grapes of Wrath (1940), Stagecoach (1939).

(Brief pause here to point out that Ford made from 1939-1941 - Young Mr. Lincoln, Stagecoach, The Grapes of Wrath, AND How Green Was My Valley?! That’s utterly incredible. I’ve left out Drums Along the Mohawk, 1939, The Long Voyage Home, 1940 and Tobacco Road, 1941 which are lesser films for Ford - all made before he left to serve and make films for the US Navy in World War II.)

A QFSer brought up that the film is a remembrance of the experience rather than the experience itself. The narration looks back at the events of the film with fondness but there’s tragedy and heartbreak in this old town. So the question is - why does Huw stay? He gets a scholarship to study in the city after doing well at school and even his father wants him to take that opportunity. After all, his brother died in the mine, people are dying all the time there. He likes school - but yet he decides to stay. We know he does because in the narration at the very opening he says he stayed in the valley for fifty years. Still, the allure of staying and working in a very dangerous industry is not clear to me other than he’s attracted to the widow Bronwyn - who is of course far older than him. I understand this is what his family has done for generations. But Huw has a ticket out. I guess that’s a sign of good filmmaking in that this decision frustrated me, which then led to the somewhat tragedy of his father dying in the coal mines.

We watched this film in the thick of the Writers’ Guild strike against the studios, right as Labor Day was approaching. The images in How Green Was My Valley of the strike stretching into the winter definitely hit close to home. Ford portrays the despair of this labor dispute with the coldness of the season and shows the desperation but determination of the workers. It’s easy to see the parallel between this and The Grapes of Wrath, how something wrought by a faceless entity, outside of one’s control - drought, bank failures, coal-mining greed - can decimate the working class and their families. It’s not exactly the same for us in the film industry, but I definitely feel some aspect of how Ford shows us this struggle.

Strike stretches into the winter?! This hits a little too close to home - from How Green Was My Valley (1941).

How Green Was My Valley may not have endured the test of time in the minds of filmmakers or people who study cinema, but it’s not because of lack of merit. Perhaps just circumstance or timing or the fact that Ford’s work is so vast and so full of hits that this one just has fallen by the wayside. It’s no small feat to tell this tale - even though it has periodic narration from an older Huw, he’s not necessarily the main character. There is no one protagonist - it’s a story of a family and a village, featuring a truly excellent drunken party scene where people are literally drinking out of hats. To tell a sprawling tale like this is no small feat and can only be done if you care deeply about the characters, their story, and their struggle. It’s no secret that Ford is one of the all-time masters of this, and How Green Was My Valley is one of the many examples of why one must continue to study his filmmaking - even in some of his less remembered films.

Forbidden Planet (1956)

QFS No. 119 - The invitation for August 9, 2023
This is going to be an interesting selection for us at Quarantine Film Society. Forbidden Planet is (A) adapted from William Shakespeare and (B) we’ll be forced to take Leslie Nielsen seriously, he of Airplane! (1980) and the Naked Gun franchise fame.

I’ve wanted to see this film for a little bit and I thought it’s time to return to pure escapist fare from an era before the special effects were super special but definitely inventive.

Join me in seeing Forbidden Planet and we’ll discuss!

Forbidden Planet (1956) Directed Fred M. Wilcox

Reactions and Analyses:
Watching Forbidden Planet with the benefit of hindsight, it’s easy to see how influential it was to the next generation of filmmakers who expanded the possibilities of science fiction motion pictures. The entire film could be an episode of Star Trek, complete with the confident (and perhaps a touch pompous) captain and a mission by an Earth space agency in a time of great space exploration. As far as I can tell, this is the origin point of “hyperdrive” to propel a mission into space. Add a human-like docile Swiss-army-knife of a robot Robby and you get the serve as prototypes for hyperspeed, C-3PO and R2-D2 from the Star Wars universe all in Forbidden Planet.

The world created by Fred M. Wilcox in Forbidden Planet is vibrant and mysterious. He contrasts the drab greys and metallic colors of Commander Adams (Leslie Nielsen)’s crew with the pastels of the landscape and the lush tones of Dr. Morbius (Walter Pidgeon)’s home and interiors. Altaira (Anne Francis) prances in clothes that deliberately angelic and pure. The film, though science fiction, is a mystery set in a truly new world.

Pastels of the landscapes contrast with the greys of the human spaceship.

Altaira (Anne Frances) at home, surrounded by greenery.

Muted greens with spots of red along with the use of depth to enhance the scale of Krell technology.

The id monster, red and ferocious when it’s finally seen.

For all of the beauty in the world of Forbidden Planet – of which there is plenty – there lies at the center of the story a heady concept at its heart. Morbius was shipwrecked on this planet two decades earlier and is the only survivor, along with his daughter Altaira. In that time, they discovered remains of the Krell, a highly advanced species who became graceful geniuses and harnessed power in ways that dwarfs what humans have been able to do. Morbius, by using their machinery, has expanded his own mental power as well.

However, the Krell are gone. And the thing that killed them might be the very thing that wiped out Dr. Morbius’ fellow travelers two decades earlier – an unseen plague. That unseen plague steadily starts to eliminate members of Adams’ crew. So that’s the central mystery of the film. Who, or what, is the invisible monster on the island and can it be stopped?

At first, Morbius seems set up to be a mad genius villain. Yet, he’s perplexed by the monster on the island too. At first we’re led to believe it’s Morbius who is somehow responsible, that he’s cruelly eradicating all of his fellow Earthlings. And while it doesn’t lead us down that path too far, it does something surprising. The monster is Morbius. It’s his id – the part of his subconscious that is primal and instinctual, as described by Dr. Sigmond Freud. Fear, hunger, hate, shame – this creature is a manifestation of Morbius’ id.

Commander Adams (Leslie Nielsen) tries to convince Dr. Morbius (Walter Pidgeon) that the creature is actually a manifestation of his own id. A concept that is probably hard to grasp when the creature is about to melt steel and enter your laboratory.

And what brought about anger and fear from his id to create this creature? The visitors from Earth leering at his daughter. He fears her leaving, of becoming a woman, of choosing to go with Commander Adams and his crew and leaving him behind. And to be fair to Morbius, the men are very creepy. All of them are fawning over Altaira, with Adams going so far as saying that, well, what do you expect – you’re dressed like that and we’ve been trapped on a spaceship together for many months.

Ironically, it’s this aspect of the film that’s most dated and not the visual and special effects - it’s this obvious misogyny, tolerated or even accepted when the film. And moreover, she has never even seen a man who wasn’t her father, so how could she possibly know how to behave around them, even if Adams was right?

For their part, the visual and special effects hold up and are incredibly … effective … and at times spectacular. Perhaps except for Robby the Robot. Who everyone loves but definitely wouldn’t stand a chance against the likes of even the most simple of droids from the Star Wars Universe. (We mean no disrespect - Robby is a legend of filmand television.)

Robby the Robot (as himself in Forbidden Planet) is a frat brother’s dream come true.

But the men do fall for Altaira and she for Commander Adams, hence justifying Morbius’ fears. As one QFSer put it in our discussion, it’s like a frat party just landed next to a house with a guy and his pretty daughter. Looking at it from this vantage point, I couldn’t help but feel like I understand Morbius – he’s acting out of primal need to protect his daughter from these creeps. So the film is heady and surprising in that way. There’s no traditional villain; Morbius is unaware of what he’s done to create the invisible creature from nightmares. However, the film doesn’t present Morbius in a sympathetic manner, focusing more on the hubris of a man who thinks he’s above it all since he unlocked higher intelligence. But all he’s done is push his baser instincts aside and created a monster.

This is quite difficult to follow and untangle at first since it’s all done in dialogue with one small twist: Robby is unable to shoot the creature. Because the creature is Morbius and Robby has been programmed never to harm a person. This is the one visual way Morbius - and the audience - finally understands that the creature is from Morbius’ psyche. Adams explains it all but it’s difficult to comprehend while the id monster is crushing doors and bearing down on them. In some ways, though, the scariest creature is one you can’t fully see - and this one, we only see once while it’s caught in the electric fence. That one time is terrifying enough and gets great mileage for the remainder of the film.

Despite some of these gaps and missteps, Forbidden Planet is incredibly enjoyable. Robby the robot is actually too great of a robot. Any robot who can both make a dress from scratch as if putting in A.I. prompts or can make 60 gallons of bourbon after “sampling” some of it (and burping), is a dream come true. He drives like race car driver and has gentlemanly manners to match. If anything, Altaira should be paired with Robby the Robot.

Ten years after Forbidden Planet Gene Roddenberry’s series Star Trek debuts on television, and eleven years later, Lucas makes Star Wars (1977). Going back to Forbidden Planet after seeing those two expansive successors feels like visiting an original text. Science Fiction has been around from before the invention of the motion picture. And once the motion picture was invented, science fiction became one of its primary genres. Yet, it’s easy to see how our two biggest tentpoles for Science Fiction began here, with Forbidden Planet, long ago on Altair IV in a galaxy far far away.