One night, endless memories.
Summer vacation, and easy-going life, are sliding to an end, with all sorts of new responsibilities looming on the other side of a Cali sunrise.
One pack of teens aim to put it off for as long as possible.
Cruising up and down the strip, the rumbling voice of Wolfman Jack echoes out of their car radios as they hold off the daylight.
Director George Lucas hit a homerun with a cast for the ages, including Harrison Ford in one of his earliest roles, and the film remains as vibrant in 2021 as it was in 1973.
A bomb that’s better than most smash hits.
Paying homage to Cary Grant-era screwball comedies, this film is best remembered — if it’s remembered at all — as being a money loser for writer/producer George Lucas.
But, like his other “mark of shame” — the unfairly-maligned Howard the Duck — it’s survived the naysayers to become a cult classic.
Careening around a radio station in 1939, a husband-and-wife team on the edge of divorce find themselves trying to solve a series of murders.
The dialogue cracks like a whip, no one stops moving, and it’s a frantic good time.
At least in my eyes.
Call me irrational, but I love this movie.
It’s hip and cool to trash the tale of a cigar-chomping alien duck saving Earth from the Dark Overlord of the Universe while sweet-talking Lea Thompson’s hard-rockin’ heroine.
They call it George Lucas’s folly; the film is supposed to be a punchline.
Too bad, so sad for you and your bitter, closed-off peach pit of a heart.
Marinate in the goofiness of Jeffrey Jones as a cosmic big bad.
And remember, “On my planet, we never say die, we say … NOT MY SHORTS! You perverts!”
I’ll be right there with you.