Getting Away with Murder - Papa Roach (mp3)
“Never rub another man’s rhubarb.” -- The Joker
“You gotta see this,” he said.
Funny thing. I’d said those exact words not five minutes prior, thrusting my smartphone in the face of a coworker upon my arrival at our dining hall. Mine was a self-made video of a slutty but attractive young blonde sitting on a trapeze bar in the rafters of one of Chattanooga’s finest restaurants.
It’s the kind of restaurant that, when you say the name, everyone reacts, “Oooh, swanky!” Except when there’s a young hottie in a high-cut red evening gown swinging over the bar, at which point people say, “Oooh, skanky!”
So, when this cell phone flew in front of my face, I couldn’t help but assume it was video of this swinging lady from another angle, even though this guy wasn’t even at the party.
Instead, it was video of some dude in a bathrobe, in a hotel, walking to fling open the curtains.
And then, it’s Matthew Broderick.
And then, he says, “How can I handle work on a day like today?”
And then Yellow’s now-immortal song, “Oh Yeah,” plays briefly in the background with the date 2.5.12 on the screen.
And then I wet myself.
“No. Way,” I said, looking around for some napkins to dry my pants.
“Way,” he said. “It’s gonna happen. Facebook is going nuts!”
At my lunch table, we sat and discussed the topic for more than half the time, trying to imagine the plot to what would have to be the most amazing surprise sequel since the reelection of Grover Cleveland.
Would Sloane be in it? Nah. No way.
What about Principal Ed Rooney? Hell yes. A cameo at the very least, but likely some awesome part, like Mike Tyson in “The Hangover.”
Would Ferris be married? Divorced? An eternal bachelor? Married, we figured. Ferris, for all his antics and insanity, was at his core a man of principle and values. He wouldn’t be the kind of guy to totally fall in love with Sloane only go grow up and be a man-whore.
If Jason Segel’s “The Muppets” could pull of the miracle, reviving what had become torpid with a non-stop cuddlefest of perfect and clever cheese, then not even the demise of John Hughes could prevent the possibility, ever so slight, that we were on the cusp of witnessing a pop culture miracle.
I practically shoved adolescents out of the way as I hurried across our campus and back to my cave, where I plopped down in front of my computer with the eager look of Ralphie trying to decode that Little Orphan Annie message.
Mere minutes later, I was drinking my Ovaltine, and it tasted... a bit nutty.
It’s not the teaser to the Super Bowl trailer for the sequel to one of the cornerstone movies of my generation’s existence. It’s the teaser to a G**D*** Honda commercial.
Fucking Honda. Fucking Broderick. Backstabbing, disillusioning, sacrilegious bastards.
Please understand. I’m sure the commercial will be clever. I’m sure it will have parts where, despite myself, I’ll laugh. But the laughter will be the kind of laughter you hear at funeral visitations or in ICU, the laughter of people who are trying to distract themselves from the fact that something we thought was immortal has died right before our eyes.
If you think I’m exaggerating my emotions in this regard, you clearly haven’t been reading this blog. Movies and music are the dog-ears of my life’s journal. And although I arrived late on the Ferris train -- didn’t see it until it hit the dollar theater -- I never hopped off. Me and enough of my generation to fill 500 Hogwarts-bound trains found a kind of hope in that movie we keep desperately looking for in other films.
It’s not Hughes’ best movie, because that was “Breakfast Club.” Ferris was his most important, because it told us, more clearly and confidently and joyfully than any other Hughes film, that someone out there understood us and loved us enough to have fun with us. The movie understood how to make us laugh and relax without ever once resorting to our baser instincts.
Yes, there’s a moment of Mia Sara in the pool. And yes, there’s a moment where Jennifer Gray kicks the ever-loving shit out of Rooney. And that, my friends, is the complete extent of sex and violence in the film. The rest of the film is (save for some foul language that couldn’t have been more perfectly placed if Michaelangelo himself had served as artistic consultant) good and clean teenage escapism. The paragon of it, in fact.
I own a Honda. Right now. A Honda Accord. It’s been a pretty good car, especially for the money. But for a few minutes on the way home on Friday, I considered crashing it over a guard rail and into the Tennessee River. I’m never speaking to my car again, and it’s not even the car’s damn fault.
But my car is now a part of the Hatfields, and I’m now a McCoy. Lines have been drawn. There’s hell to pay for this. I'm so mad I can't even proofread this.
Corporate bastards in an Odyssey ran over Bueller, and someone’s gonna have to get vengeance. Even if I have to hire Liam Neeson to travel the globe and find the people behind this. He will find them. And he will kill them.
If he did that for his daughter, just think of what he’ll do to the poor saps who murdered Ferris.