Archives for posts with tag: Breakfast Club (1985)

A message from a journal editor showed up in my inbox this morning.

Apologies for the delay over your suburbia piece. I’m having severe problems locating willing reviewers for your article. I have now approached 7 academics, and all have rejected the offer to review the piece. Have you any suggestions over who to approach?

I have immense sympathy for the editor, who seems to deserve a medal for sticktoitiveness if nothing else. S/he has been very understanding when it comes to my habit of submitting decent but not publication-ready maps in an article about zoning (exciting, trust me) and Breakfast Club and Slums of Beverly Hills.

I’m sympathetic to their cause, since I abhor internships and pretty much any form of profit-maximization built on unpaid labour (see, for one slice of the peer review shit, this subscription-required piece in the Chronicle). That said, the screwheads who can’t be bothered to do their bit can go get fucked.

In the end it’s just going to lead to 1) my friends peer reviewing me and saying “publish as-is” and 2) me making an offer to peer review for a journal that will turn me down because I’m not a permanent member of academic staff. Glorious.

[edited post title]

During the domestic hullabaloo that opens Sixteen Candles, suburban dad Jim Baker (Paul Dooley) gets shut out of the bathroom by his getting-married-tomorrow daughter, who tells him, “I happen to have a serious problem.” Enter twelve-or-so year old Mike (Justin Henry) to explain things to his father.

Mike: She’s got her period. Should make for an interesting honeymoon, huh?

Jim: Where are you learning that stuff?

Mike: [with a smirk] School. [exit]

Jim: Good. Getting my money’s worth.

Sixteen Candles tells us quite a lot about the town where the Bakers live – Evanston, Illinois – through this line. While we can ascribe some of Mike’s worldliness to the pedagogical power of hierloom issues of Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler, that information isn’t in the movie. What we do have is a line of dialog that says “sex ed in middle school.” And Jim Baker, suburban dad, is totally cool with it. In fact, he’s satisfied that his kid is learning something in school.

I find it difficult to imagine this scene in a film made in the last fifteen years, mostly because American public education decisions are one of the last holdouts in the move toward greater inclusion.

This more or less tossed-off dialog exchange led me to think about what high school looked like for 80s teen dramas. To look at John Hughes’ other high school films: Sixteen Candles also has study hall, mentions of a class called “independent development,” and gym class (including a scene that lingers over a headless nude female torso while still managing to retain a PG rating). For all the group therapy in Breakfast Club, the classes they talk about are gym (Andrew), shop (Brian and Bender), and physics (Brian). Ferris Bueller’s Day Off feature’s Ben Stein’s economics/history class. And Weird Science has science and gym class. Curiously, there’s no literature class in any of these.

Nor is there in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, which orbits around a hodgepodge world history class. Say Anything opens with Diane Court (Ione Skye) being introduced as excelling in “history…oceanography…creative writing…and biochemistry” as a way to drive home how smart she is, but there’s no classroom for creative writing, although we do get to see Corey (Lili Taylor) workshop her songs. Better Off Dead mines French class for some of its jokes. Finally, in a more serious vein, Stand and Deliver is about a calculus class.

And here an article is a waitin to be born. Of Reagan’s Secretaries of Education — Terrel Bell, Bill Bennett, and Lauro Cavasos — Bennett seems to be the person to look at for a sense of what the national conversation about education policy looked like. The other figure to consider is ED Hirsch, who published Cultural Literacy in 1987. After I refamiliarize myself with these two gents and their contributions to the debate, I’ll have more to say.


I grew up in Carpentersville, Illinois, a suburb on what used to be the northwest edge of Chicagoland. It was as good a place to grow up as any, I guess, and I have mostly fond memories of it. I was absolutely mortified when C’Ville was the New York Times Magazine cover story on anti-immigrant politics – especially since I grew up in the eastern part of town, the very predominantly-Hispanic part of town that those dickheads were intent on demonizing. But in spite of my affection for C’Ville, Chicago-suburb set films don’t make me homesick, perhaps because the best-known “suburban Chicago films” – the John Hughes cycle, Chris Columbus’s stuff , and what my friend and Lansing, IL native Luke Mundo called “all that North Shore shit” – concern a very narrow strip of the region that looks and acts nothing like my old block on Papoose Road.

However, a couple of movies (and a television show) make me homesick: Fargo, A Serious Man, and Mystery Science Theater 3000.

MST3K, The Joel Episodes: Joel’s sleepy delivery reminds me of my friend John, perhaps the preeminent MFA-holding car mechanic in the Chicago suburbs. This creates a very strange kind of homesickness, one that combines the upper-midwestern accent of half of my family with the aw-shucks irony of one of my best friends from my teen years. I may be alone among academics, but I had a perfectly pleasant adolescence. Joel episodes are as close as I can get to experiencing the best parts of hanging out with my friends, only across the gulf of time.

Fargo: For the last ten years, I’ve not experienced a proper Midwestern winter. I spent two winters in New Hampshire, which was a good way to farewell the cold. I moved from New Hampshire to Nashville in May 2003 (and it snowed on the day I moved); Nashville could get cold, but not Illinois/Wisconsin cold. Christchurch is dank and unpleasant during winter, but it never hurts to go outside, nor does any trip require thermals, half an hour of warming up the car, scraping the windshield, and that painful sound of tyres packing down snow. I can’t say that I miss winter, but it’s easier to miss the rituals and shared pains of winter than it is the actual lived experience of it. I was in Illinois in January-February 2011, and the two blizzards during my stay, coupled with the face-numbing cold, convinced me that I actually kind of prefer not slogging through a “real” winter. But there’s something about seeing a horizonless white-grey image that stirs memories of driving up to Green Bay for Thankgiving or Christmas. This was the view from the backseat of our Pinto station wagon many a trip to Grandma and Grandpa Long’s:

And then there’s A Serious Man. On the one hand, the gloriously Kodachrome-y shots of Larry standing on his roof make me miss C’Ville’s suburban aesthetic.

The flatness, the not-quite-grown-in trees, the regularity of the pattern, all the things that, for example, my (New England 4H farm girl) wife found unsettling about the Midwest and suburbia are the things I remember most now that I live on the side of a hill looking out on the Pacific Ocean.

But while MST3K and Fargo both let me look back in time in the standard nostalgic homesickness kind of way, toward fond memories of C’Ville, the suburbs, and the Midwest. A Serious Man does something else entirely. It generates in me a feeling of what my life would have been like, had I been the adult me in the C’Ville of my youth. I was fairly interested in religion as a kid – George Carlin taught me to take what they said at Catechism seriously, because that was the best way to get laughs and make trouble (I also thought about going to seminary) – so when Larry the academic turns to the three rabbis to deal with his troubles, I can see a credible imagined past for an amalgamation of 1975-born Christian and a speculative 1955-born Christian. In other words, my ability to remember C’Ville, and growing up there, owes more to the Larry Gopnik I am now than to the John Bender-Brian Johnson mix I was.

The ending to Pretty In Pink (Howard Deutch 1986) stinks. How, exactly, does Andie picking Blaine over Duckie constitute a happy ending? While it might be easy to blame meddlesome Paramount Pictures for changing screenwriter John Hughes’s ending, producing a romantic couple who solves class differences is not at all foreign to Hughes’s films. In particular, Hughes’s Shermer sequence set in the affluent suburbs of Chicago – Sixteen Candles (1984), The Breakfast Club and Weird Science (both 1985), and Ferris Buehler’s Day Off (1986) – reveals more than a passing interest in understanding class in America as teen romance. In Ferris Buehler’s Day Off, for example, Mrs. Buehler works as a real estate agent in wealthy Glencoe and Winnetka and worries over the hood (Charlie Sheen) her daughter meets at the police station.  Sixteen Candles takes place in a town so staid and upper-middle-class that it must import the gross racial caricature of a Chinese exchange student, Long Duk Dong, to introduce anything resembling a class difference that disappears after one night of passion. While high-school films such as Hughes’s consistently connect romance, education, and class mobility, they tend not to engage zoning (perhaps for obvious reasons). One film that does confront the importance of zoning is Tamara Jenkins’ 1998 film Slums of Beverly Hills.

Slums of Beverly Hills begins with the Abromowitz family moving out of their apartment in the middle of the night.  They spend the night driving around before moving into a dingy little one-bedroom unit similar to their previous home.  Vivian (Natasha Lyonne), the film’s voiceover narrator, introduces the apartment complex as “Casa Bella.  Another dingbat.  Dingbats, that’s what they’re called.  Two story apartment buildings featuring cheap rent and fancy names that promise the good life, but never deliver.”  While Vivian’s too-weary-for-a-teenager voice certainly implies the standard negative-judgment connotation for the word, her description also uses dingbat to refer to Casa Bell’s specific architectural form: “a type of small apartment building, popular throughout the Sun Belt, which sits on stilts over a parking lot – a direct outcome of the ubiquitous American on-site parking requirement.  The construction of a single dingbat on a street of row houses is all that is necessary to bring down the real estate value of the entire block” (Duany, Plater-Zyberk, Speck 175-6).  As a group, fourteen-year-olds tend not to use “dingbat” as a term of real estate art.  Vivian’s vocabulary, then, highlights the “Slums” portion of the title to signal the film’s interest in the ways in which setting rules for the built environment perpetuates and solidifies class distinctions. Her comment also points to the delicate work of rationalizing the unequal distribution of public services like education. In a word, Vivian tells us about zoning.

The Abromowitzes may move often, but they never leave the boundaries of the Beverly Hills School District because success in the classroom means much, much more there.  Murray (Alan Arkin) sells cars, but his second job is to keep tabs on affordable housing in Beverly Hills, whose schools offer college-prep curriculum that can turn the family’s class position – tenuously lower-middle-class – into a temporary stop on an upward trajectory. When Richie (Eli Marienthal), proposes moving outside of Beverly Hills, “somewhere cheaper….in Torrance [where] maybe we could afford other stuff like furniture,” his father dismisses the notion by explaining the one advantage to living in lousy, unfurnished Beverly Hills dingbats. “God damn it,” he yells, “we’re here for the school district.”  Though his slumped body language argues otherwise, Murray pedantically reminds his kids, “furniture is temporary.  Education is permanent.  Forget furniture.  Forget Torrance.”  The sense of education as going hand-in-hand with other long-term investments like real estate significantly motivates the continued growth of suburbia; finding “a good place to raise kids” tends to hinge on good schools. And good schools like those in Beverly Hills, predominantly funded through property taxes, tend to be found in affluent suburbs.  What’s a working-class or lower-middle-class family to do when the mechanism that makes “good schools” possible in suburbia – zoning – depends on drawing borders to minimize the number of potential beneficiaries of education-driven upward mobility? Slums of Beverly Hills and John Hughes films show that the grim secret to class mobility is an ability to work within the constraints local zoning codes put in place to find affordable housing in an otherwise high-dollar school district. But zoning is not an impartial referee; municipalities’ property-value protecting zoning restricts this sort of residential mobility to limited areas. Not-quite-middle-class teenagers like Slums’ Vivian Abromowitz, and Hughes’s Andie Walsh and Andrew Johnson locate the source of personal, familial, and social problems in suburbia not “at home,” but in a differently-zoned building.



[edited to fix word order problem]