The movie lists Richard Elfman as the lead singer of Oingo Boingo. Richard was the creator of the performance troupe "The Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo", the previous incarnation of the band Oingo Boingo. He is the brother to Oingo Boingo front man Danny Elfman and not a part of the musical group the resulted from his original concept. See more »
This film left me genuinely torn, but only with regards to how vicious and spiteful this review was going to be. I've decided to allow the review to precisely reflect the way that the film in question made me feel.
For the record, I do fully understand that the filmmakers - having made the unforgivable idiot's error of beginning a documentary without their centrepiece in place - must have felt that they had to do something with the footage that they'd shot. The problem is that all of their footage, without one single exception, is entirely bereft of pop cultural worth.
The interviews - which make up for a depressingly slim amount of the total running time - are about as deep and interesting as a puddle of day-old dog urine. It goes without saying that the likes of Molly Ringwald, Anthony Michael Hall and Matthew Broderick don't appear here, but the actors who do take part aren't actually asked anything of note. You can envisage this crew of filmmakers putting exactly the same questions to Judd Nelson and Andrew McCarthy that they do to a band of young schoolchildren at one point. "So like, why is John Hughes so great?"
Nobody has the answer. The inarticulate buffoons behind the camera try to answer it themselves during one utterly toe-curling sequence (that takes place in a twilight-tinged field) but if that moment of abject horror isn't to your taste, then believe me - every single other interview is quite indescribably boring. John Hughes was a genius. John Hughes meant the world to everyone. John Hughes spoke to teenagers like nobody ever has, before or since. Yes, we get the picture. So what else you got?
What else they got is footage of themselves; and an apparently endless supply of it at that. What makes this fact so thoroughly appalling is that the film stops being about John Hughes after about five minutes. This isn't a film about him - it's a film about them. And these people think they're funny. They think they're cute. They think they're wise. Not only are they none of the above, they also collectively believed that eighty-odd minutes of their inane potterings would somehow make for acceptable entertainment for the paying public. I only have three words for them: how dare you.
As a fan of John Hughes, the fact that a documentary pertaining to be "about" the great man features such a disarming lack of insight and investigation is absolutely shocking. This is nothing more than a poorly-shot travelogue about a group of deeply uninteresting people making trite and stupid observations for the entirety of the running time.
I paid to have the DVD imported, so I'm sure that the ten-watt bulbs who were responsible for this production are probably laughing their heads off right now. But then again, I literally just made my money back via a re-sale on eBay. In a very, very small way, I just bucked a stupid system to make it work for me. John Hughes would have been proud.
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