In a surprise event, John Hughes died yesterday of a heart attack, only 59 years old.
It would be a foregone conclusion to say that anyone who was a teenager from 1983-1990 felt his voice in the movies of the day. His amazing fusion of teen issues, relevant music and lighthearted humor made the films poignant, enjoyable and above all, memorable. I recall many Thanksgiving aftermaths, the tryptophan weaving it's magic on our conscious minds, watching two misfits drive the wrong way down an icy highway and giggling our asses off. I remember the Q&A with Macaulay Culkin in Uncle Buck and how Hughes brought out Candy's amazing physical and gregarious humor on screen.
I remember being older and watching She's Having a Baby right after my son was born and having it take on a completely different meaning, hearing the Kate Bush song in my head and thinking how freaked I would be in a similar situation. Then again, I also thought about how cool it would be to name my kid Queeg, Blye, Nargausius, Rolo or Vortiger.
It's sad that he did so little in his later years, his key demographic growing older, going to college, moving past the high school drama that he so eloquently captured. His stars grew up, became adults, parents and in some cases, corpses. The freaky kid who was crapping his pants in Weird Science became Tony Stark in Iron Man. The neo maxi-zum-dweebie bulked up and became a TV psychic based on a Stephen King character. Bueller's sister got a nose job and never looked like herself again. Ed Rooney was convicted as a pederast. I guess as we get older, in the same vein as Allison says in The Breakfast Club, it's not our hearts that die, but rather our heroes.
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