Every decade, when viewed in retrospect, gets reduced to a collection of shorthand symbols from the pop culture of the era. The 60s were Flower Power and the Woodstock generation. The disco 70s are exemplified by John Travolta’s white flared suit in Saturday Night Fever. And the 80s? Well, the 80s would be nothing without the pastel-tinted movies of John Hughes. Hughes is the man behind a slew of seminal teen movies of the era: as director of a number of classics (Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off) and writer of a few more (Pretty in Pink, Some Kind of Wonderful), he established himself as the go-to guy for teen comedy dramas and, to a large degree, created the Brat Pack. But as his films trade in the currency of pop, they’re usually dismissed as mere trifles – and unfairly so. One of his best films as writer/director, The Breakfast Club, shows that he had a rare knack for capturing the teen zeitgeist while moulding it into an accessible and wildly popular form.
The Breakfast Club revolves around five high school students doomed to spend a full Saturday in detention. The stereotypes are all represented: the jock (Emilio Estevez), the princess (Molly Ringwald), the nerd (Anthony Michael Hall), the rebel (Judd Nelson) and the weirdo (Ally Sheedy). They’re all bummed at being stuck in a library with a bunch of strangers – and yet, as their hours of captivity stretch out, they find that they have much more in common than they thought. As one of the characters puts it: "We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all."
And that’s where Hughes’s films succeed: by taking outsiders and showing how, inside, they’re just like anyone else – or, conversely, by showing how the prom kings and queens of the world are as screwed up as the rest of us. That way, pretty much any young person – or anyone who can remember being young – can relate.
Therein lies the trick in elevating his films beyond the trashy fare typical of the 80s (the two Coreys, I’m thinking of you). Hughes refuses to condescend to teenagers: they are always adults in a fledgling form – sensitive, often confused, but intelligent and mature in ways that his adult characters often aren’t.
Only an adult who has forgotten the teen experience could delegitimise the feelings of the young through the throwaway term ‘teen angst’. I doubt the phrase exists in Hughes’ vocabulary. It’s a stark contrast with too many teen flicks of today (American Pie, 10 Things I Hate About You, She’s All That) – a patronising mockery of kids, hidden beneath a veneer of slapstick humour.
As authentic as the emotions of the young may be, however, we all grow up – and with it comes an inevitable change in perspective. Nowhere have I seen the sentiment of John Hughes’ films more perfectly summarised than in this conversation from the climactic scene of The Breakfast Club:
Andrew: My God, are we gonna be like our parents?
Claire: Not me. Ever.
Allison: It’s unavoidable. It just happens.
Claire: What happens?
Allison: When you grow up, your heart dies.
Five teenagers in a library sounds more like a stage play than a movie, and in lesser hands would probably end up a real snooze-fest – but the unflinchingly heartfelt approach sucks you in. Judd Nelson carries more than his fair share of the film as well, with the juiciest dialogue saved for his nostril-flaring rants. And let’s not overlook the killer soundtrack, led by Simple Minds’ unforgettable “Don’t You Forget About Me”.
With such a great combination of elements, it’s a shame that Hughes’ films are considered to be prime examples of the vapidity of the 80s. In my opinion, they are exactly the opposite. The teenagers rebel against the materialistic excesses of their parents – those self-centred, money-grubbing, status-obsessed devotees of consumerism – and instead strive for meaning in their lives. It seems to have been a prescient insight: the 90s, the era in which his characters would become fully fledged adults, would embrace the anti-consumerist / anti-establishment ethic of grunge music and indie cinema.
Bender’s (Judd Nelson) ‘F-you’ attitude towards The Man shows exactly that, and makes us all wish we had the balls to tell it like it is:
Mr Vernon: You're not fooling anyone, Bender. The next screw that falls out will be you.
Bender: Eat my shorts.
Mr Vernon: What was that?
Bender: Eat... My... Shorts.
Mr Vernon: You just bought yourself another Saturday.
Bender: Ooh, I'm crushed.
Mr Vernon: You just bought one more.
Bender: Well I'm free the Saturday after that. Beyond that, I'm going to have to check my calendar.
The note that the group finally leaves for their teacher in lieu of their 1 000-word essays reads like an open letter from the youth to the older generation, and serves as an admonition to everybody who has experienced the bittersweet pain of growing up:
Brian: Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain...
Andrew: ...and an athlete...
Allison: ...and a basket case...
Claire: ...a princess...
John: ...and a criminal...
Brian: Does that answer your question?... Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.