Trains, Veins, and Detention Days
Just answer the question, Claire
Trainspotting
The drums of Iggy Pop’s “Lust For Life” kick with ferocity — the junkies run at top velocity — screenwriter John Hodgman blasts consumerist verbosity — and then Ewan McGregor almost gets killed by a car.
The character name RENTON burns into the screen. The film literally freezes frame. Takes a breath.
The only pause of this accelerating masterpiece. Some films occur at a nexus point in the culture, with a confluence of talents in the right place at the right time. Danny Boyle had established himself in the promising debut of Shallow Grave, the novel was a cult favorite in Scotland, and there was a group of undiscovered actors with a tight compression of talent destined to explode individually or collectively, and this film is all the better for the fact that they burst on the scene together.
The sensation of propulsive energy of Trainspotting begins with the opening scene - but it continues throughout partly due to the soundtrack, which is in the argument for top-10 movie soundtracks of all time.
There are several monologues that are showcase-worthy, I’m assuming many an actor has committed them to memory for use at auditions. Kelly MacDonald’s speech as Diane outside of the nightclub where she eviscerates and titillates Renton, Jonny Lee Miller as Sickboy’s spoken essay about Sean Connery, and of course the iconic opening “choose life” narration from Ewan McGregor’s Renton, but my favorite is a different one from McGregor/Renton, in one of the few slower moments in the film, where our gang escapes urban environs to take in some mountains, and Renton responds to being asked if he’s proud being Scottish:
It's SHITE being Scottish! We're the lowest of the low. The scum of the fucking Earth! The most wretched miserable servile pathetic trash that was ever shat on civilization. Some people hate the English. I don't. They're just wankers. We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers. Can't even find a decent culture to get colonized by. We're ruled by effete assholes. It's a shite state of affairs to be in, Tommy, and all the fresh air in the world won't make any fucking difference!
The indelible images of Trainspotting are at the heart of any best-of-indie-90s-cinema mosaic: The Worst Toilet in Scotland. The ceiling-crawling baby. Begbie tossing a pint glass over the rail. Spud’s my pleasure in other people’s leisure job interview. The silhouetted main cast at a train stop. Every inch of Mother Superior’s hangout for skags.
:sound of cowboy boots being put on: :sound of horse neighing:
:sound of horse being saddled up:
A review of Trainspotting allows me to get on one my hobby horses of cinematic discourse: The Glamorization Fallacy.
The Glamorization Fallacy is when a cultural critic misconstrues depiction for endorsement.
One of the most-invoked complaints from the moron set is that this film “glamorizes drug use.”
Depiction does not equal endorsement. In fact, most of the time, it’s intended to be the opposite.
Any yagoff whose conclusion upon the credits rolling on Trainspotting is to look over to the person sitting next to them and say, “hey let’s go shoot up some heroin!” did not watch the actual film which unspooled before their moronic eyes.
Yes, it provides the vicarious thrill of the high. Yes, it does so with painstaking authentic detail. Yes, it marshals the full complement of cinematic forces in this effort.
And it does the same in dragging you into the brutal cost of that high. Death. Devastation. Disease.
The brief glimpses of drug-fueled bliss are not what endure as the film lingers with you after viewing - it’s the come-down, the pain of getting clean, the horrific and fatal consequences that crush many of its previously happy souls.
It’s a testament to the brilliance of the filmmaking that it wrenches you through such bleak events yet is one of the most rewatchable films of the 90s. One of those, no matter at what point you catch it, you’re not turning it off, staples of cinema.
The Breakfast Club
How is it that a Boomer delivered the iconic Generation X movie?
John Hughes may have been born in 1950 but his spirit channeled the youth of the 80s even better than those of us who lived through it.
His collaborators have attributed this to Hughes having never really grown up. He maintained a psychological state perfectly attuned to teen angst.
Hughes’s uncanny insight into the adolescent mindset manifests in peculiar ways. The awkward specificity of the moment where The Brain and The Criminal start to take off their jackets simultaneously. The Brain glances over - crippled by that that incessant anxious self-critic, transforming an utterly meaningless coincidence into an opportunity for more awkwardness. The Criminal, sensing The Brain’s fear, capitalizes on the pause as a chance to assert dominance, and glares The Brain into submission. He then reverses course and acts as if he suddenly got a chill, blows hot breath onto his hands, and puts the jacket back on. Nonsensical behavior in any context outside of high school.
The Brain and The Criminal occupy opposing corners of the personality pentagram that is The Breakfast Club. The Brain, foolishly, thinks he can win some points with The Criminal by dropping some profanity in his direction - “It’s the shits,” this Brain says, only to receive another judgemental glare.
Beyond the personality archetypes defined in the film - one thing Hughes completely nails about high school:
The. Utter. Fucking. Tedium.
The kids chew fingernails, pull hoodie drawstring, wrap an index finger with string until it turns purple, fidget in chairs, and rain dandruff onto an illustration like snow. Anything but write that essay.
Judd Nelson’s performance as The Criminal - along with some of Bill Murray and John Cusack’s performances - are avatars of the Generation X ethos: wisecracking smartasses who not only question authority but mock it to its face.
There was a point in the mid-80s where I probably could have recited the entire film from memory. Every line of dialogue. Especially The Criminal’s lines.
As brilliant and iconic as The Breakfast Club was and is - there’s a bit of a sadness to revisiting the film on its 40th anniversary. In the moment in the mid-’80s, it felt like we were watching the ascendance of an entirely new generation of actors who would come to dominate the movies for years to come. Ally Sheedy and Molly Ringwald seemed destined to be competing annually for Oscars as they landed more mature roles. Emilio Estevez, perhaps an action hero. Nelson, an introspective and brooding Brando type. And Anthony Michael-Hall? The kid’s comedic talent seemed limitless.
But then, some magazine writer put the label “Brat Pack” on them. The devilishly clever wordplay insulting an entire group of gifted actors may have doomed their careers.
Hughes understood teens. He could write incredible dialogue. He could also push the filmmaking process to get the best out of young actors. One factor in the film’s enduring legacy is the fact that Hughes was able to give the ensemble a lot of time to rehearse the material before filming. The actors were intense in getting their characters just right - some of them even going so far as to ask Hughes to let them read previous drafts of the script to understand the evolution of the project - and Hughes had the confidence to let them improvise once they fully understood their characters.
He also knew how to cue the right piece of pop music to match the moment. The Breakfast Club soundtrack is filled with a lot of also-ran songs in a decade filled with pop masterpieces, but Hughes has a gift for matching the right beat to the right visual moment to produce emotional effects that are greater than the sum of its individual parts.
Youth culture films like American Graffiti, Dazed and Confused, and The Breakfast Club can rise or fall upon the level of authenticity they bring to evoking the time period of its setting. George Lucas and Richard Linklater had the benefit of hindsight, with their films being set in the past. The culture of the early ‘60s and mid ‘70s captured in those films was established by details of the era that were filtered by the progression of time. But John Hughes was making The Breakfast Club for the contemporary moment. Having the eye to choose what would be distinctly ‘80s - in terms of fashions, attitudes, slang, or any details of youth culture and high schools of the period - is something Hughes excelled at, managing to provide a time capsule without the lens of nostalgia.
Outstanding piece. Don't know if you saw Andrew McCarthy's "Brat" documentary, but it very well captures the damage that stupid moniker caused for this group of actors. Only a few came through unscathed.