'Ferris' could never go too far, to our delight
For years I've had people ask me, "Do you really think 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off' is the greatest movie ever made?" Of course not. I never said that -- or if I did, it was said in jest. But what I have said, and what I still say, is that "Ferris" is one of my favorite movies of all time. It has one of the highest "repeatability" factors of any film I've ever seen. As is the case with "The Godfather" movies, with "Caddyshack," with "Pulp Fiction," with "The Maltese Falcon" and with a hundred more of my favorite films, I can watch it again and again.
Some critics find the hero of "Ferris" to be an insufferably smug, upper-middle-class, smart-ass teenager who deserves a beatdown. And, yes, there are times when you can understand why Ed Rooney wants to wipe that self-satisfied smile off Bueller's face. But thanks to John Hughes' clever and textured script (not to mention young Matthew Broderick's natural-born likability), you can also understand why everyone loves Ferris and why he's able to pull off so many cons without getting nabbed.
There's also this, and I say it in all sincerity: "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" is something of a suicide prevention film, or at the very least a story about a young man trying to help his friend gain some measure of self-worth.
The movie isn't about Ferris Bueller's day off -- it's about his best friend, Cameron's, day off.
Cameron, who wears a Detroit Red Wings jersey in Chicago. Cameron, who is always "sick" and has a tray filled with medications by his bed. Cameron, who is so depressed and so morose he has trouble getting out of bed and is nearly paralyzed by his own inertia as he sits behind the wheel of his car.
Cameron, who stares at Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" and is truly, deeply moved by the image of a little girl in the painting, possibly because as the camera gets closer and closer, she looks like she's tormented by something deep inside her soul on a seemingly perfect day. Cameron, whose unseen father apparently has no use for his son.
Ferris and his impossibly gorgeous and adoring girlfriend Sloane share an idyllic (and logistically impossible) day at a Cubs game, a snooty restaurant, the Art Institute, a parade, etc., not because these two charmed souls need it but because Cameron needs it. Ferris has made it his mission to show Cameron that the whole world in front of him is passing him by, and that life can be pretty sweet if you wake up and embrace it. That's the lasting message of "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."
In addition to "Ferris," John Hughes will be forever remembered for writing and/or directing more than a half-dozen iconic comedies: "National Lampoon's Vacation," "Sixteen Candles," "The Breakfast Club," "Pretty in Pink," "Planes, Trains & Automobiles" and "Home Alone." He was a prolific writer with a gifted touch for the way kids and teenagers talked -- or at least the way kids and teenagers wish they talked. He gave us dozens of quotable lines and helped jump-start the careers of an impressive roster of actors -- some of whom became stars, others who faded into Trivial Pursuit obscurity.
(Where have you gone, Michael Schoeffling? Answer: He makes furniture in Pennsylvania, and reportedly likes that just fine.)
But nearly all of Hughes' most successful films touched on more serious issues. In "Home Alone," young Kevin helps orchestrate a reunion between his seemingly scary next-door neighbor and the neighbor's estranged son. In "Planes, Trains & Automobiles," Steve Martin's successful businessman just might be taking his blessed family life for granted, until the obnoxious but big-hearted John Candy reveals a heartbreaking secret about his own marriage. In "The Breakfast Club," the classic teen stereotypes are shattered, as the jock confesses his seething resentment for his father, the tough-guy delinquent reveals that he's abused at home and the brainiac talks about the endless pressure to succeed. In "Uncle Buck," an overgrown adolescent learns the value of family.
Granted, the lessons were sometimes obvious, maybe not always delivered with the lightest touch. But beyond all those big laughs and the physical gags, within all those memorable one-liners, John Hughes was making movies about appreciating what you have, looking beyond the stereotypes and understanding the family dynamic.
Hughes was a prolific writer who would hammer out scripts in a matter of weeks. Some of them were crude, some of them truly funny, some of them duds ("Weird Science"). Who can say what happened to Hughes in the 1990s, when he creatively drowned in a series of sequels and unnecessary remakes such as "Miracle on 34th Street."
There were always rumors. He was writing script after script after script, but locking them away without showing them to anyone, in Salingeresque fashion. Or he was working on a sequel to "Ferris" or "The Breakfast Club." His uncredited work (billed as Edmond Dantes) on the screenplays for "Drillbit Taylor" and "Maid in Manhattan" didn't exactly signal a return to the zone he was in throughout the 1980s.
But for "Ferris" and for "Uncle Buck," for "Planes, Trains ..." and "She's Having a Baby," for the first "Home Alone" and "Sixteen Candles," we are grateful. John Hughes was like a great pop singer who had a heckuva run before he got stuck in a rut and then disappeared. The silence in the later years doesn't diminish our fondness for those old hits, which still resonate a generation later.