Two years ago today, the world lost one of its most prolific sentimentalists: the genre forming director, John Hughes. Branded as our generation’s JD Salinger, he left all too soon after a fatal heart attack at the age of 59.
Before Hughes arrived on the scene with his army of love-sick misanthropes, Hollywood’s idea of adolescence was a 30 year old in a battered leather jacket. As Hughes himself pointed out, “before me, the last thing Hollywood wanted in their teen movies was teenagers.”
With his first film, he taught young men the importance of grand gestures (SIXTEEN CANDLES, 1984), becoming key reference point for just about every subsequent rom com. A year later, he created THE BREAKFAST CLUB, that renewable source of popculture fuel. And of course, in 1986, Ferris Bueller having an epic day off without the help of drink, sex or drugs.
Unashamedly American, John Hughe’s movies celebrated youth and gave stars like Molly Ringwald and Matthew Broderick a chance to shine. For those who hit their hormonal peak in the 80s, his films beat Ingmar Bergman’s into the ground to the sound of Spandau Ballet.
Back in the day, a slew of budding filmmakers lost their shit to this man and never got it back. Drink to every Hughes reference you hear in a Kevin Smith film, we guarantee you’ll be dead by dawn.
So here’s to you John Hughes, the man who launched a million homages.
