Sam curled his puppydog body up on the sofa, his head resting on my lap, as I flipped through stations and landed on HBO Signature, to watch St. Elmo’s Fire. Thankfully I didn’t have to defend the film to Sam as it went on, because I was conflicted, to be honest. It’s a horrible movie. Just dreadful. Mare Winningham is a fine actress. Ally Sheedy eventually became a fine actress. Rob Lowe, well, I think he’s a fine actor, but it’s easy to not care about acting or anything else when you look at the face of an angel.
Mostly it was an exercise in historical place-where, a nostalgic dative case: it was the first movie that I identified with my own adulthood. I was a year behind the Brat Pack, as it turns out. I didn’t realize that at the time, but the wonders of IMDB and a significantly distal point of view allow me to see it now.
So much maudlin message in so shallow a pool of talent. It’s enough to make you weep a little.
And be glad you’ve survived your own youth.