The Breakfast Club

Nelson, Estevez, Sheedy, Ringwald, Hall: The B-Club

In the light of writer-director John Hughes’ uneven, delightful film debut, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club is both gratifying and disappointing. It’s gratifying because it proves that Hughes is funny, daring, and brimming with basic movie savvy. It’s disappointing because Hughes can’t quite bring everything together in a way that avoids pat conventions.

It begins brilliantly—Hughes sweeps us into his conceit with economy and zip, and we get introduced to the principals in brief strokes, each indicative of his or her stereotyped role vis-à-vis high school. (The idea of the film is that the stereotypes they embody to us—and each other—will be broken down, and that all share similar anxieties, successes, fears, hopes.) They’re thrown together in a day-long Saturday detention session in the school library. There’s a jock (Emilio Estevez), a princess (Molly Ringwald), a dork (Anthony Michael Hall), a loudmouth nonconformist (Judd Nelson), and a withdrawn would-be runaway (Ally Sheedy). In the course of the day, they find out more about each other, and about themselves, than they ever knew before—and they began the day as strangers.

The first hour—of the film, that is—is very funny, and full of wonderful detail and language (Hughes has a keen ear for high school parlance). As Hughes gets into the serious stuff, the film goes distressingly toward tried-and-true resolution (although it is not without some surprises). As I said, this is disappointing; but in terms of Hughes’ career, it’s not too discouraging. He’ll get better, and there’s plenty here to savor. Certainly the performers are very good, and Judd Nelson, sneering and bellowing, may be better than that.

And every once in a while something leaps out and slaps you with its originality. In particular, there’s a moment when Ally Sheedy is doodling on her note pad (at this point in the film, she may have yet to speak her first line—she’s mute for the first half-hour). We see her shaggy head looking down at her desk, then Hughes cuts to her pad—she’s drawn a little cabin in the woods, picket fence out front, smoke curling from the chimney (just the kind of home this lonely kid probably fantasizes about). Cut back to Sheedy’s face; she looks at the drawing, something is not quite right. She tips her head forward and rubs her fingers back and forth through her thick hair. Dandruff falls down to the desk; Hughes cuts to the picture, and the little cabin in the woods is now covered with snow. That’s beautiful.

First published in The Informer, March/April 1985

Of all the performers to single out in this movie, I had to go with Judd Nelson. Folks, reprinting these reviews is a warts-and-all proposition, and sometimes you have to reach for the Compound W, is all I can say. This film was important to people of a certain age, and I can see why; I sort of wish I’d had a film like it ten years earlier. The idea of it is ingenious, although it still bugs me that it narrows to a very conventional set of conclusions as it goes along, especially the supposed blossoming of Sheedy’s character.

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