The 80s Movie Podcast

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens explores Hearts and Armour (1983), an Italian fantasy adventure inspired by Orlando Furioso. The film follows star-crossed lovers caught between Christian and Saracen armies during a sprawling medieval conflict. However, prophecy, magic, and divided loyalties threaten every chance at happiness. Along the way, we examine the film's production design, elaborate costumes, and ambitious fantasy world. In addition, we discuss performances from Tanya Roberts, Ronn Moss, Barbara De Rossi, and the rest of the international cast. Director Giacomo Battiato aimed for epic storytelling, while drawing on classic European literature and fantasy traditions. The result remains one of the most visually distinctive genre films of the decade. At the same time, we consider why Hearts and Armour remains a cult curiosity among fantasy fans. Furthermore, we look at its reputation as a beautiful but divisive film. Many viewers praise its costumes, armor, and action sequences despite its unconventional storytelling. Whether you discovered it on cable, VHS, or streaming, this episode revisits a forgotten fantasy epic that still sparks debate among genre enthusiasts.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits Dr. Heckyl and Mr. Hype (1980), the offbeat comedy that gave Oliver Reed the chance to play both a shy, awkward doctor and his outrageous alter ego. Directed by Charles B. Griffith and loosely inspired by Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic story, the film follows Dr. Adrian Heckyl as he creates a formula that transforms him into the loud, confident, and wildly inappropriate Mr. Hype. Alongside Reed, the cast includes Sunny Johnson, Jackie Coogan, and character actor staples from late 1970s and early 1980s comedy. In this episode, Edward digs into the film’s unusual mix of satire, broad comedy, and horror influences while exploring how Dr. Heckyl and Mr. Hype tried to modernize Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for a different era. He also examines Oliver Reed’s dual performance, the film’s troubled critical reception, and why its humor divided audiences even as it carved out a small following among fans of strange studio comedies. What happens when a familiar literary story collides with 1980s sex comedy, celebrity culture, and social satire? Edward revisits the creative choices behind Dr. Heckyl and Mr. Hype and considers where the film fits within the larger wave of eccentric comedies released at the start of the decade. Whether you remember it from cable television or have never heard of it before, this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast takes a closer look at a movie that rarely enters conversations about 1980s comedy.

Edward Havens, host of The 80s Movie Podcast, issues a brief apology and explains why the show paused for the past eight months. This 2m52s host update thanks listeners and provides a candid explanation of the hiatus. Thank you for sticking with the neon-lit rewind. Your support matters.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits the little-seen 1986 television thriller The Brotherhood of Justice, a mostly forgotten ABC movie starring a young Keanu Reeves and Kiefer Sutherland years before they became major Hollywood stars. Inspired by real events at a Texas high school, the film follows a group of students who form a vigilante organization to fight crime and drugs, only to watch their movement spiral dangerously out of control. Based loosely on the real-life “Legion of Doom” case in Fort Worth, Texas, the movie blends teen drama with cautionary crime thriller in a way that feels both deeply 1980s and surprisingly relevant today. Edward explores the production history behind The Brotherhood of Justice, its status as an overlooked made-for-TV movie, and why early performances from stars like Billy Zane and Lori Loughlin make it a fascinating time capsule. Plus: personal memories from Edward’s own connection to the filming locations and high school where the movie was shot, reflections sparked by his 40th high school class reunion, and why this forgotten piece of 1980s television deserves rediscovery.  

Look back at 40 years of the Brat Pack, the unofficial group of young actors whose films fundamentally defined 1980s teen culture. Host Edward Havens explores the origins of the infamous nickname from David Blum's 1985 New York Magazine cover story. We trace how media hype, intense friendships, and behind-the-scenes rivalries turned a handful of rising Hollywood stars into an iconic pop-culture movement.   Dive deep into the ultimate debate over who actually qualifies as a true "Brat Packer" and who gets excluded. Learn why key actors like Andrew McCarthy and Rob Lowe spent decades pushing back against the label. We unpack the legacy of the core members and the surrounding circle of stars who continually shaped the era's definitive cinematic identity.   Revisit a gauntlet of classic films including The Breakfast Club, St. Elmo's Fire, Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Weird Science, and The Outsiders. Edward tackles the ultimate question: what is officially the best Brat Pack movie of all time? Tune in to find out why the crown might not belong to the most obvious choice, and how this legacy still drives movie nostalgia forty years later.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues his retrospective on the films of director Susan Seidelman with a deep dive into her quirky 1987 sci-fi romantic comedy, Making Mr. Right. Following her massive breakout success with Desperately Seeking Susan, Seidelman used her three-picture deal with Orion Pictures to craft this unique cinematic blend of classic screwball romance, retro-futuristic satire, and 1980s workplace comedy.   The episode explores the film's production, detailing how Seidelman transformed the screenplay into a Frankenstein-inspired comedy and the gamble of casting John Malkovich in a dual role. Alongside Malkovich, we look at the incredible ensemble cast, including standout performances from Ann Magnuson, Laurie Metcalf, and Hart Bochner, who navigate this highly colorful, neon-soaked production.   Finally, we analyze the vibrant Miami setting that gave the film its signature aesthetic and break down why this initial box-office disappointment eventually developed into a beloved cult classic. We close out the discussion by evaluating where this offbeat sci-fi feature stands in the larger legacy of 1980s feminist cinema and Seidelman's overall filmography.

Step into a world of sword-and-sorcery, dark fairy tales, and practical effects on The 80s Movie Podcast as host Edward Havens welcomes author Todd Downing. Celebrating his new book Return of the Calico Kids, Downing joins the show for an expansive deep dive into the absolute best fantasy films of the 1980s.   The conversation tracks the incredible evolution of fantasy filmmaking during Hollywood's most imaginative decade, unpacking how ambitious world-building and larger-than-life storytelling birthed a true golden age for the genre. Together, Edward and Todd explore behind-the-scenes anecdotes, hidden thematic layers, and the unique practical magic that allowed these features to become enduring touchstones for generational film fans.   From beloved mainstays to obscure cult favorites, this nostalgic retrospective evaluates what truly elevates an '80s fantasy movie to classic status. Tune in to discover Todd's personal top five ranking, get essential curated watchlist recommendations, and explore why these specific cinematic worlds still capture our imaginations decades later.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens takes a deep dive into the chaotic history of Collision Course, the bizarre buddy-cop action-comedy starring late-night giant Jay Leno and The Karate Kid legend Pat Morita. Filmed at the height of the 1980s mismatched-partner craze, this forgotten cinematic curiosity paired a fast-talking Detroit detective with an investigator from Tokyo, resulting in a fascinating cultural time capsule that struggled to find its footing.   The episode tracks the film's incredibly troubled production journey, which was helmed by director Lewis Teague. Havens unpacks the financial turmoil behind the scenes, specifically detailing how the sudden bankruptcy and collapse of Dino De Laurentiis’s Entertainment Group (DEG) trapped the completed film in legal limbo, shelving its release for years.   Finally, we analyze the movie's stellar supporting cast, including Chris Sarandon and Ernie Hudson, and explore how it eventually bypassed theaters entirely for a quiet home video release in 1992. We close the retrospective by evaluating why this heavily delayed project ultimately became a footnote in the careers of its main stars and where it ranks among the era's saturated buddy-cop landscape.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues his series on the films of Susan Seidelman with a deep dive into Desperately Seeking Susan (1985). The film became Seidelman's biggest commercial success and helped capture the energy of mid-1980s New York City. At the same time, it transformed Madonna from a music sensation into a movie star and introduced audiences to one of the decade's most distinctive comedies. Along the way, we explore Seidelman's direction, the performances of Rosanna Arquette and Madonna, and the film's unique blend of romance, comedy, mystery, and mistaken identity. In addition, we examine how the story uses New York City's downtown culture, fashion, and music scene to create a vivid portrait of the era. The result remains one of the most recognizable and influential films of the decade. At the same time, we discuss why Desperately Seeking Susan continues to resonate with audiences nearly forty years later. Furthermore, we look at its cultural legacy, its impact on independent filmmaking, and its place within Susan Seidelman's body of work. Whether you're a longtime fan or discovering it for the first time, this episode revisits a defining film of 1980s cinema and one of the most important movies of Seidelman's career.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens examines Brats (2024), Andrew McCarthy's deeply personal documentary about the lasting impact of the "Brat Pack" label. Nearly forty years after a single magazine article transformed a group of young actors into a cultural phenomenon, McCarthy revisits the people, films, and relationships that defined an era of 1980s cinema. However, the documentary asks a larger question: was the label a career-making opportunity or a burden that never disappeared? Along the way, we explore the origins of the Brat Pack and the media frenzy that surrounded stars such as Emilio Estevez, Rob Lowe, Demi Moore, Ally Sheedy, Judd Nelson, Anthony Michael Hall, and Molly Ringwald. In addition, we discuss McCarthy's conversations with many of his former contemporaries as he investigates how the label shaped their careers, public identities, and personal lives. The documentary offers a candid look at fame, friendship, and the unintended consequences of Hollywood branding. At the same time, we examine why the Brat Pack continues to fascinate audiences decades later. Furthermore, we consider how films such as The Breakfast Club, St. Elmo's Fire, Pretty in Pink, and Sixteen Candles helped define a generation of moviegoers. Whether you grew up with these films or discovered them later, this episode revisits the legacy of a cultural phenomenon that still shapes conversations about 1980s movies and the stars who came to represent them.

Our regular spotlight on influential female filmmakers returns with one of the most important independent films of the 1980s. In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens launches a retrospective of director Susan Seidelman by examining her groundbreaking debut feature, Smithereens (1982). Long before she found mainstream success with Desperately Seeking Susan, Seidelman captured the grit, ambition, and uncertainty of downtown Manhattan through the story of Wren, a restless young woman determined to become somebody in New York’s fading punk scene. Along the way, we explore how Seidelman created an authentic portrait of early-1980s New York on a shoestring budget, filming on location amid the city's post-punk culture and urban decay. We also discuss the film's memorable performances, including punk icon Richard Hell, and examine why Smithereens remains such a valuable time capsule of a New York that has largely disappeared. Furthermore, we look at the film's themes of identity, self-invention, and the pursuit of fame, ideas that would later reappear throughout Seidelman's career. At the same time, Smithereens occupies a significant place in independent film history. Not only did it help establish Seidelman as a major new voice in American cinema, but it also became the first American independent film selected to compete for the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Looking back, the film feels both deeply rooted in its era and surprisingly contemporary, especially in its exploration of image-making, self-promotion, and the desire to be noticed. Whether you're discovering Smithereens for the first time or revisiting a cult favorite, this episode examines the film that launched one of the most distinctive directing careers of the decade.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens looks back at Crimewave (1986), one of the most unusual and troubled collaborations in 1980s cinema. Directed by Sam Raimi and co-written with Joel and Ethan Coen shortly after their debut Blood Simple, the film is a surreal blend of slapstick comedy, noir parody, and cartoon violence that quickly spiraled into one of the decade’s most notorious studio productions. Originally conceived as a follow-up to The Evil Dead, Crimewave was heavily reshaped by studio interference, shifting casts, recuts, and production disputes that left both Raimi and the Coen brothers dissatisfied with the final release. Starring Bruce Campbell in a supporting role alongside Reed Birney, Louise Lasser, and Brion James, the film follows a chaotic chain of murders, mistaken identities, and absurd crime capers in a stylized urban nightmare. Edward explores how studio control reshaped the film’s identity, why its production became so contentious, and how Crimewave ultimately became a cult curiosity in the filmographies of both Raimi and the Coens. While initially a box office failure, the movie has since gained attention as an early experiment in the styles that would define two of the most influential filmmaking careers of the era.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, we revisit Smokey and the Bandit Part 3, the unusual final chapter in the Smokey and the Bandit series, released without Burt Reynolds in a starring role and built around an entirely different concept than audiences originally expected. Instead of focusing on Bo “Bandit” Darville, the film shifts attention to Sheriff Buford T. Justice, played once again by Jackie Gleason, while Jerry Reed’s Snowman reluctantly steps into Bandit territory. The result is one of the strangest franchise pivots of the 1980s. We explore the behind-the-scenes story that makes Smokey and the Bandit Part 3 such a fascinating Hollywood curiosity, including the original abandoned concept, Smokey Is the Bandit, in which Jackie Gleason played both Sheriff Justice and a version of the Bandit before poor test screenings led to major reshoots. We also discuss the absence of Burt Reynolds and Sally Field, the shift toward broader comedy, and why the movie struggled both critically and commercially upon release. Over time, Smokey and the Bandit Part 3 has developed a strange kind of cult fascination among franchise fans, not necessarily because it works, but because of how unusual its production history became. Online discussions still debate the lost “Jackie Gleason cut,” the heavily reworked story, and whether the film deserves reevaluation as a chaotic relic of changing tastes in 1980s comedy and action cinema. Join us as we unpack one of the oddest sequels of the decade, and the moment a once unstoppable franchise finally ran out of road.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens looks back at Threads (1984), the harrowing BBC television film directed by Mick Jackson that depicts the devastating consequences of nuclear war on the city of Sheffield, England. Originally broadcast during the height of Cold War tensions, the film follows two ordinary families as escalating geopolitical conflict between the United States and the Soviet Union leads to a full-scale nuclear exchange and the collapse of modern society. Unlike conventional disaster films, Threads presents an unflinching, documentary-style portrayal of the long-term effects of nuclear fallout, including societal breakdown, economic collapse, and generational trauma. The film was produced on a modest budget for the BBC but became one of the most talked-about and feared television broadcasts of its era due to its realism and bleak outlook. Edward explores the production background, the film’s impact on audiences in the 1980s, and why Threads continues to be cited today as one of the most disturbing and realistic depictions of nuclear catastrophe ever filmed. He also places it in context alongside other Cold War-era works such as The Day After, highlighting how television and cinema reflected global anxieties about nuclear conflict.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens looks back at Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988), the groundbreaking live-action/animation hybrid that changed Hollywood forever. Directed by Robert Zemeckis and produced by Steven Spielberg, the film blended classic cartoon chaos with hard-boiled film noir, following private detective Eddie Valiant (Bob Hoskins) as he investigates a murder mystery involving Roger Rabbit, Jessica Rabbit, and the strange world of Toontown. Inspired loosely by the novel Who Censored Roger Rabbit?, the movie became a landmark achievement in visual effects and animation. Edward dives into the fascinating production history behind Who Framed Roger Rabbit, from Disney’s unlikely collaboration with Amblin Entertainment and the challenge of licensing rival cartoon characters to the technical breakthroughs that made animated characters feel physically real decades before CGI took over Hollywood. Plus: why Christopher Lloyd’s Judge Doom terrified an entire generation, how the movie revived interest in theatrical animation, and why many fans still consider it one of the greatest and most ambitious movies of the 1980s.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens takes a look at one of the most difficult and overlooked films of the early 1980s: Deep in the Heart (released in the UK as Handgun), a 1983 vigilante drama directed by British filmmaker Tony Garnett. Set in Texas, the film follows Kathleen Sullivan, a teacher who relocates from Boston and is violently assaulted by a local lawyer, leading her to confront both the failures of the justice system and her own transformation through firearms training and self-defense. The film stands out in early 80s cinema for its unflinching approach to gun culture in America, blending social commentary with the structure of a revenge thriller in a way that sparked controversy and limited distribution. Despite strong critical discussion of its themes, Handgun quickly faded from mainstream awareness and became a rarely-seen title for decades. Edward explores the film’s production history, its British-American perspective on American gun ownership, and how Tony Garnett used the revenge genre to critique (not glorify) violence, setting it apart from more exploitative entries in the same era of cinema. Part of our Produced and Abandoned series.  

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens takes a look back at one of the strangest ensemble comedies of the 1980s: Chattanooga Choo Choo (1984), a film loosely inspired by the famous Glenn Miller song and built around an over-the-top premise involving a cross-country train race for a multimillion-dollar inheritance. Starring George Kennedy as a football team owner attempting to secure his fortune by restoring and racing a historic train from New York to Chattanooga in under 24 hours, the film quickly spirals into a chaotic onboard road trip comedy featuring Barbara Eden, Joe Namath, Melissa Sue Anderson, Christopher McDonald, and Clu Gulager. What begins as a simple inheritance challenge turns into a packed locomotive of rivalries, romance, football antics, and escalating delays. Edward explores how Chattanooga Choo Choo tried to capitalize on the success of big ensemble comedies of the era, why its crowded cast and tonal chaos left it overlooked on release, and how it has since become a footnote in 80s comedy history, remembered more for its premise than its execution.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens explores UFOria (1985), a quirky cult 80s movie that blends comedy, romance, road movie chaos, and extraterrestrial obsession. Harry Dean Stanton stars as a dreamer convinced that a UFO will solve his problems and carry him away from ordinary life. However, his search for answers creates a series of unpredictable encounters that push him further from reality and closer to trouble. Along the way, we examine the film's unusual mix of deadpan humor, offbeat characters, and Southwestern atmosphere. In addition, we discuss performances from Cindy Williams, Fred Ward, and Stanton, whose unique screen presence anchors the story. The film never found a wide audience, yet it earned a loyal following among fans of cult 80s movies who appreciate its strange charm and refusal to follow convention. At the same time, we look at why UFOria remains one of the decade's most overlooked cinematic oddities. Furthermore, we consider how its blend of comedy, fantasy, and UFO mythology sets it apart from more traditional 1980s fare. Whether you're a longtime fan or a first-time viewer, this episode revisits a hidden gem that continues to fascinate movie lovers, collectors, and film historians.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens returns to the ongoing Orphans series. This time, he examines three films released by distributors that never handled another theatrical release. The spotlight falls on Heartbreaker (1983), Hells Angels Forever (1983), and Mother Lode (1982). Together, they reveal a forgotten corner of 1980s movie history. Along the way, we explore how these companies entered the film business and quickly disappeared. In addition, we look at the unique challenges each film faced in reaching audiences. From street-level romance to documentary filmmaking and adventure storytelling, these releases showcase the variety found among overlooked 1980s productions. Each film tells its own story, while also highlighting the risks of independent distribution. At the same time, we consider why these forgotten distributors still matter today. Furthermore, we examine how their brief existence reflects the opportunities and pitfalls of the decade's changing film marketplace. Whether you enjoy cult discoveries, industry history, or obscure cinema, this episode uncovers three fascinating examples of movies that survived long after the companies behind them vanished.

The 80s Movie Podcast returns to The Orphans series, which spotlights films whose distributors released exactly one theatrical feature before closing their doors. In Part 5, host Edward Havens examines three films with almost nothing in common except that shared fate. The Last Fight (1983) stars Fred Williamson as his signature character Jesse Crowder, alongside Ruben Blades and Darlanne Fluegel, distributed by Best Film and Video, a company that ceased operations immediately after the film's release. The Howling III (1987) took the werewolf franchise to Australia under director Philippe Mora, picked up by Square Pictures, a distributor so obscure it left behind no business filings and no further releases. However, the episode's most surprising entry is Sullivan's Pavilion (1987), a personal documentary by upstate New York filmmaker Fred G. Sullivan that won a Special Jury Prize at Sundance and still almost nobody saw. Each of these films tells a different story about what it meant to make and release movies outside the Hollywood studio system in the 1980s. Along the way, Edward traces Best Film and Video's brief and troubled attempt to build a distribution business on the back of a Fred Williamson action picture, the mysterious origins of Square Pictures, and Mora's decision to self-finance The Howling III as a kind of apology to fans of the original. Furthermore, the episode follows Sullivan's remarkable persistence in self-distributing his film city by city, eventually retitling it The Beer Drinker's Guide to Fitness and Filmmaking and finding genuine audiences in Burlington, Vermont and at the Bleecker Street Cinemas in New York. Consequently, Sullivan's story stands apart from the others as something closer to a quiet triumph than a cautionary tale. In addition to the individual release histories, this episode builds a portrait of independent cinema infrastructure that was simultaneously ambitious and deeply fragile. At the same time, it recovers three filmmakers who operated entirely on their own terms, with wildly different results. The Beer Drinker's Guide to Fitness and Filmmaking is available to watch free on Vimeo, and this episode makes a strong case for why it deserves to be found.   The Orphans series is an ongoing exploration of one-off distribution company films as part of The 80s Movie Podcast.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens explores Motion Picture Marketing, an early 1980s independent distributor that built its business by aggressively rebranding and retitling 1970s European horror films for the American market. Rather than releasing these films as originally presented, the company reshaped them through new titles, redesigned poster campaigns, and targeted marketing strategies designed to make foreign genre cinema more commercially viable to U.S. audiences. In this episode, Edward breaks down how Motion Picture Marketing identified overlooked international horror titles and repositioned them through graphic-driven advertising and strategic packaging. He also examines how this approach allowed the company to move beyond simple distribution and eventually step into producing its own films, using marketing success as a foundation for expansion within a rapidly evolving independent film landscape. Finally, Edward looks at what this short-lived company reveals about early 1980s film distribution, particularly how smaller distributors competed with limited resources by prioritizing creativity in presentation over production scale. The episode also connects these strategies to broader trends in exploitation cinema, where marketing often shaped audience perception as much as the films themselves.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens concludes his exploration of Miramax Films in the 1980s by focusing on the company’s 1989 releases, a year that brought increased visibility, stronger positioning, and signs that Miramax had moved beyond survival into sustained influence. After a decade of gradual growth, the company entered the final years of the 1980s with a clearer identity and growing confidence in the films it championed. In this episode, Edward explores the movies Miramax released during 1989 while tracing how the company expanded its reach within independent cinema. Along the way, he examines the filmmakers, acquisitions, and industry conditions that helped Miramax strengthen its reputation. At the same time, the episode considers how the distributor’s successes reflected larger shifts happening within specialty film distribution as audiences increasingly embraced alternatives to major studio filmmaking. As the series concludes, Edward reflects on how Miramax evolved throughout the 1980s and why its growth mattered to the future of independent cinema. By the end of the decade, the company had established itself as a meaningful presence within the film industry and set the stage for even greater influence in the years ahead.    

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues his exploration of Miramax Films by revisiting the company’s 1988 releases, a period when the distributor expanded both its reach and reputation. As independent cinema gained greater visibility during the late 1980s, Miramax increasingly positioned itself as a company capable of bringing challenging, international, and unconventional films to wider audiences. In this episode, Edward examines the films Miramax released during 1988 while also exploring how the company refined its distribution model and strengthened its place within the specialty film market. Along the way, he looks at the filmmakers, acquisitions, and industry developments that helped Miramax attract greater critical attention. At the same time, the episode considers how independent film distribution itself was changing as audiences sought alternatives to mainstream studio releases. As Miramax moved closer to becoming a recognizable industry name, the company entered a period of growing confidence and ambition. This installment follows the next stage of a distributor steadily reshaping its place in American film culture.  

Rampage is one of the most fascinating and overlooked films of the 1980s. In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, we dive into the troubled production, disturbing subject matter, and complicated legacy of William Friedkin’s 1987 crime thriller. Written, directed, and produced by Friedkin, the film tells the story of a chilling serial killer case that pushes the justice system, morality, and the death penalty debate to their limits. We explore how Rampage was originally intended as a hard-edged courtroom and psychological drama inspired by real-life crimes, and how its production became entangled with the collapse of De Laurentiis Entertainment Group. The film’s fate was sealed when the studio went bankrupt, delaying its release for years and leaving it largely unseen by audiences at the time. Despite being completed in the late 1980s, the film did not receive proper distribution until the early 1990s, contributing to its reputation as one of Friedkin’s most misunderstood works. Whether you’re a fan of William Friedkin’s filmmaking or discovering Rampage for the first time, this episode revisits a dark, challenging, and often forgotten corner of 1980s cinema. We break down why the film still feels unsettling today, how it fits into Friedkin’s career, and why some of the most interesting films of the decade are the ones that nearly disappeared entirely.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues his Miramax Films series by focusing on 1987, a year that marked an important turning point in the company’s growth. Although Miramax remained a relatively small independent distributor, its slate increasingly reflected larger ambitions, broader visibility, and stronger positioning within the independent film landscape. In this episode, Edward explores the films Miramax released throughout 1987 while examining how the company strengthened relationships with emerging filmmakers and expanded its presence in specialty distribution. Along the way, he looks at the creative voices behind these projects and the challenges of building momentum in an industry still dominated by major studios. At the same time, the episode traces how Miramax gradually moved from survival mode toward sustained growth. By 1987, the company had begun positioning itself for a much larger role in independent film. This chapter of the series explores the releases and decisions that helped move Miramax closer to mainstream recognition.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens falls down a research rabbit hole and uncovers one of the strangest forgotten films of the 1980s: Oklahoma Smugglers, a little-seen 1987 action-comedy that seemingly vanished from existence after a limited Southern theatrical release and a lone VHS release in 1988. What happened to this lost movie — and why couldn’t anyone see it for decades? Along the way, we explore the growing problem of disappearing films, from silent-era lost cinema to modern streaming removals, and how obscure independent movies can slip through the cracks of film history. Featuring discussion of film preservation, regional theatrical distribution, forgotten VHS releases, and the bizarre history behind one of the rarest 80s movies ever discussed on the podcast. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today.   You were probably expecting the third part of the Miramax Films in the 1980s series, and we will get to that one the next episode. But as often happens while I’m researching, I’ll fall down a rabbit hole that piques my interest, and this time, it was not only discovering a film I had never heard of, but it fits within a larger discussion about disappearing media.   But before we get started, I need to send out a thank you to Matthew Martin, who contacted me via email after our previous episode. I had mentioned I couldn’t find any American playdates for the Brian Trenchard-Smith movie The Quest around the time of its supposed release date of May 1st, 1986. Matthew sent me an ad from the local Spokane newspaper The Spokesman-Review dated July 18th, 1986, which shows the movie playing on two screens in Spokane, including a drive-in where it shared a screen with “co-hit” Young Sherlock Holmes. With that help, I was also able to find The Quest playing on five screens in the Seattle/Tacoma area and two in Spokane on July 11th, where it grossed a not very impressive $14,200. In its second week in the region, it would drop down to just three screens, and the gross would fall to just $2800, before disappearing at the end of that second week. Thank you to Matthew for that find, which gave me an idea.   On a lark, I tried searching for the movie again, this time using the director’s last name and any day in 1986, and ended up finding 35 playdates for The Quest in Los Angeles, matinees only on Saturday, October 25th and Sunday, October 26th, one to three shows each day on just those two days.   Miramax did not report grosses.   And this is probably the most anyone has talked about The Quest and its lack of American box office. And with that, we’re done with it. For now.   On this episode, we’re going to talk about one of the many movies from the 1980s that has literally disappeared from the landscape. What I mean by that is that it was an independently made film that was given a Southern regional release in the South in 1987, has never been released on video since its sole VHS release in 1988, and isn’t available on any currently widely used video platform, physical or streaming.   I’ll try to talk about this movie, Oklahoma Smugglers, as much as I can in a moment, but this problem of disappearing movies has been a problem for nearly a century. I highlight this as there has been a number of announcements recently about streaming-only shows and movies being removed from their exclusive streaming platform, some just seven weeks after their premieres.   This is a problem.   Let me throw some statistics at you.   Film Foundation, a non-profit organization co-founded by Martin Scorsese in 1990 that is dedicated to film preservation and the exhibition of restored and classic cinema, has estimated that half of all the films ever made before 1950 no longer exist in any form, and that only 10% of the films produced before the dawn of the sound era of films are gone forever. The Deutsche Kinemathek, a major film archive founded in Berlin in 1963, also estimates that 80-90% of all silent films ever have been lost, a number that’s a bit higher than the US Library of Congress’s estimation that 75% of all silent film are gone. That includes more than 300 of Georges Méliès’ 500 movies, a 1926 film, The Mountain Eagle, that was the second film directed by Alfred Hitchcock, and London After Midnight, considered by many film historians to be “the holy grail” of lost films. A number of films from directors like Michael Curtiz, Allan Dwan, and Leo McCarey are gone. And The Betrayal, the final film from pioneering Black filmmaker Oscar Micheaux, is no longer with us.    There are a number of reasons why many of these early movies are gone. Until the early 1950s, movies were often shot and printed on nitrate film, a highly flammable substance that can continue to burn even if completely submersed in water. During the earlier years of Hollywood, there were a number of fires on studio lots and in film vaults were original negatives of films were stored. Sometimes, studios would purposely incinerate old prints of films to salvage the silver particles within the nitrate film. Occasionally, a studio would destroy an older film when they remade that film with a new cast and director. And sometimes films, like Orson Welles’ original cut of The Magnificent Ambersons, would be dumped into the ocean off the Southern California coast, when studios no longer wanted to pay to store these elements.   Except Oklahoma Smugglers does not fit into any of those scenarios. It’s less than forty years old, in color, with a synchronized soundtrack. It’s crime was being a small budgeted independently distributed movie from an independent production company that was only released in a small section of the United States, and never got any traction outside of that region.   Not that this alone is why it disappeared.   You may recall hearing about David Zaslav, the head of the mega entertainment conglomerate Warner Brothers Discovery, cancelling the release of two completed films, a Batgirl movie that would have featured Michael Keaton’s return as Batman a full year before The Flash, and a sequel to a fairly successful Scooby Doo animated movie. Warner Brothers had spent more than $200m between the two films. They were shot, edited and scored, and ready for release. Then Zaslav decided these were of the quality he expected for Warner Brothers movies, and wrote them off for the tax break. Unless someone at Warners somewhere down the line decides to pay back the tax incentive to the Fed, these two movies will never legally be allowed to be shown, effectively making them lost films.   Again, there are many ways for a film to become lost.   In our case, it seems that Oklahoma Smugglers is an unfortunate victim of being the one and only film to be produced by Cambridge Entertainment Corporation, based in Needham MA. The company was founded on September 10th, 1986 and went into involuntary dissolution on December 31st, 1990, so it’s very likely that the company went bankrupt and no company was interested in picking up the assets of a small independent production company with only one tangible asset, this movie.   So here is what I could find about Oklahoma Smugglers.   The film was produced and directed by Ota Richter, whose only previous film work was writing, producing a directing a horror comedy called Skullduggery in 1982. The film has its fans, but they are few and far between. Three years later, in 1985, Richter would work with a first time screenwriter named Sven Simon to come up with the story for Oklahoma Smugglers. When the script was completed, Richter would raise the money he would need to shoot the movie in Toronto with a no-name cast lead by George Buzz and John Novak, and a four week production schedule between February 24th and March 21st, 1986. One can presume the film was locked before September 10th, 1986, when Cambridge Entertainment Corporation was founded, with Ota Rickter as its treasurer. The other two members of the Cambridge board, company President Neil T. Evans, and company Secretary Robert G. Parks, appear to have not had any involvement with the making of the movie, and according to the Open Corporates database, the men had never worked together before and never worked together again after this company.   But what Neil Evans did have, amongst the six companies he was operating in and around the Boston area at the time, was a independent distribution company called Sharp Features, which he had founded in April of 1981, and had already distributed five other movies, including the Dick Shawn comedy Good-bye Cruel World, which apparently only played in Nashville TN in September 1982, and a 1985 documentary about The Beach Boys.   So after a year of shopping the film around the major studios and bigger independent distributors, the Cambridge team decided to just release it themselves through Sharp Features. They would place an ad in the September 16th, 1987 issue of Variety, announcing the film, quote unquote, opens the Southeast on September 18th, just two days later.   Now, you’ll notice I was able to find a lot of information about the people behind the film. About the companies they created or had already created to push the film out into the market. The dates it filmed, and where it filmed. I have a lot of sources both online and in my office with more data about almost every film ever released. But what I can’t tell you is if the film actually did open on September 18th, 1987. Or how many theatres it played in. Or how much it grossed that first weekend. Or if any theatres retained it for a second week. Or any reviews of the movie from any contemporary newspaper or magazine. Outside of the same one single sentence synopsis of the movie, I had to turn to a Finnish VHS release of the film for a more detailed synopsis, which roughly translates back into English as such:   “Former Marines Hugo and Skip are living the best days of their lives. Hugo is a real country boy and Skip again from a "better family." Together they are a perfect pair: where Skip throws, Hugo hurls his fists. Mr. Milk, who offers security services, takes them on. Mr. Milk's biggest dream is to get hold of his nemesis "Oklahoma Smuggler" Taip's most cherished asset - a lucrative casino. Mr. Taip is not only a casino owner, but he handles everything possible, from arms smuggling to drugs. The fight for the ownership of the Oklahoma Smuggler casino is a humorous mix of fistfights, intrigues and dynamite where Hugo and Skip get the hero's part. What happens to the casino is another matter.”   Okay, that sounds like absolute crap.   But here’s the thing.   I actually enjoy checking out low budget movies that might not be very good but are at least trying to be something.   I would be very interested in seeing a movie like Oklahoma Smugglers. But I can’t the darn thing anywhere. It’s not posted to YouTube or Vimeo or any video sharing service I know of. It’s not on The Internet Archive. It’s not on any of the Russian video sites that I occasionally find otherwise hard to find movies.   There’s no entry for the film on Wikipedia or on Rotten Tomatoes. There is an IMDb page for the film, with a grand total of one user rating and one user review, both from the same person. There’s also only one rating and mini-review of it on Letterboxd, also from the same person. There is a page for the film on the Plex website, but no one has the actual film.   This film has, for all intents and purposes, vanished.   Is that a good thing?   Absolutely not.   While it’s highly likely Oklahoma Smugglers is not a very good movie, there’s also a chance it might actually be stupid, goofy fun, and even if its a low quality dupe off a VHS tape, it should be available for viewing. There should be some kind of movie repository that has every movie still around that is in the public domain be available for viewing. Or if the owners of a movie with a still enforceable copyright have basically abandoned said copyright by not making the film available for consumption after a certain amount of time or for a certain amount of time, it also become available. This would not only help films like Oklahoma Smugglers be discovered, but it would also give film lovers the chance to see many movies they’ve heard about but have never had the opportunity to see. Even the original theatrical version of the first three Star Wars movies are no longer available commercially. Outside of a transfer of the early 1990s laserdisc to DVD in 2004, no one has been able to see the original versions in nearly twenty years. The closest one can get now are fan created “Despecialized” editions on the internet.   Film fans tend to think of film as a forever medium, but it’s becoming ever increasingly clear that it far from that. And we’re not just talking about American movies either. When I said it is estimated that half the films ever made are considered lost, that includes movies from all corners of the globe, across several generations. From Angola and Australia to the former Yugoslavia and Zambia. Gone forever.   But every once in a while, a forgotten film can come back to life. Case in point, The Exiles, a 1958 film written, produced and directed by Kent Mackenzie, about a group of Native Americans who have left their reservation in search of a new life in Los Angeles’ Bunker Hill neighborhood. After premiering at the 1961 Venice Film Festival, the film was never picked up for theatrical distribution, and for many years, the only way to see it was the occasional screening of the film as some college film society screening of the one 16mm print of the film that was still around. Cinephiles were aware of the film, but it wouldn’t be until the exceptional 2004 video essay Los Angeles Plays Itself by Thom Anderson that many, including myself, even learned of the film’s existence. It would take another four years of legal maneuvering for Milestone Films to finally give The Exiles a proper theatrical and home video release. The following year, in 2009, with new public exposure to the film, the Library of Congress included The Exiles on their National Film Registry, for being of culturally, historically or aesthetically" significance. In the case of The Exiles, much of Bunker Hill was torn down shortly after the making of the film, so in many ways, The Exiles is a living visual history of an area of Los Angeles that no longer exists in that way. It’s a good film regardless, but as a native Angelino, I find The Exiles to be fascinating for all these places that disappeared in just a few short years before my own birth.   So, that’s the episode for this week.   Thank you for joining us. We’ll talk again next week, when we continue our miniseries on Miramax Films in the 1980s.   Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about Oklahoma Smugglers.   The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment.   Thank you again.   Good night.  

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues his look at Miramax Films by exploring the company’s releases from 1984 through 1986, a period when the distributor began refining its identity within the growing independent film market. Although Miramax still operated far outside the studio system, the company increasingly sought films that could distinguish it from competitors and attract audiences interested in international, unconventional, and filmmaker-driven stories. In this episode, Edward examines the films that shaped Miramax during these transitional years while also exploring the business realities facing independent distributors in the mid-1980s. Along the way, he considers how release strategies, marketing limitations, and critical reception influenced the company’s growth, even as Hollywood studios continued to dominate theatrical exhibition. At the same time, the episode highlights the filmmakers and projects that helped establish Miramax’s emerging reputation. As Miramax slowly expanded its reach, the company began laying the groundwork for a larger breakthrough later in the decade. This episode continues the story of how an independent distributor learned to compete in a changing film industry.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens begins a multi-part exploration of Miramax Films and its rise during the 1980s. Starting with the company’s earliest years between 1979 and 1983, Edward traces how a small independent distributor entered a marketplace dominated by major studios by acquiring, promoting, and releasing films that larger companies often ignored. Before Miramax became associated with awards campaigns and prestige cinema, it operated as an outsider trying to establish a foothold in a competitive business. In this episode, Edward explores the company’s earliest releases while examining the practical realities of independent film distribution during the period. Along the way, he looks at how Miramax built relationships with filmmakers, pursued niche audiences, and developed strategies that would eventually help define the modern independent film marketplace. At the same time, the episode considers the risks involved in launching a film company during a decade increasingly shaped by blockbuster economics. As the first chapter in an ongoing series, this episode establishes the foundation for understanding how Miramax grew from a small distributor into a recognizable force within American cinema. By revisiting these early releases, Edward begins tracing the decisions and turning points that shaped the company’s future.  

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens wraps up his miniseries on director Martha Coolidge with a look back at her overlooked 1988 comedy Plain Clothes. Starring Arliss Howard as an undercover police officer posing as a high school student to investigate the suspicious death of his younger brother, Plain Clothes blends teen comedy, murder mystery, and fish-out-of-water humor into one of the stranger studio comedies of the late 1980s. Along the way, Edward explores how the film followed Coolidge’s cult favorite Real Genius, why Plain Clothes struggled to find an audience despite a cast that included Suzy Amis, George Wendt, and Max Perlich, and how the movie became one of those forgotten 80s cable and video-store discoveries that audiences still occasionally rediscover today. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT   From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today.   On this episode, we’re going to complete our miniseries on the 1980s films of director Martha Coolidge with her little seen 1988 movie Plain Clothes.   When we last left Ms. Coolidge, she had just seen her 1985 film Real Genius get lost in the mix between a number of similarly themed movies, although it would eventually find its audience through home video and repeated cable airings throughout the rest of the decade.   Shortly after the release of Real Genius, she would pick out her next project, a comedy mystery called Glory Days. Written by Dan Vining, Glory Days was one of a number of television and movie scripts floating around Hollywood that featured a supposedly young looking cop who goes undercover as a student at a high school. Whatever Coolidge saw in it, she would quickly get to work making it her own, hiring a young writer working at Paramount Studios named A. Scott Frank to help her rewrite the script. Coolidge had been impressed by one of his screenplays, a Neo-noir romantic mystery thriller called Dead Again, and felt Frank was the right person to help her add some extra mystery to the Glory Days screenplay.     While Frank and Coolidge would keep some elements of the original Glory Days script, including having the undercover cop’s high school identity, Nick Springsteen, be a distant relative of the famous rock star from whose song the script had taken its title. But Coolidge would have Frank add a younger brother for the cop, and add a murdered teacher, who the younger brother is accused of killing, to give the film something extra to work towards.   For the cast, Coolidge would go with a mix of newcomers in the main roles, with some industry veterans to fill out the supporting cast.   When casting began in early 1987, Coolidge looked at dozens of actors for the lead role of Nick Dunbar, but she was particularly struck by thirty-two year old Arliss Howard, whose film work had been limited to supporting roles in two movies, but was expected to become a star once his role in Stanley Kubrick’s next project, Full Metal Jacket, opened later in the summer.   Twenty-five year old Suzy Amis, a former model who, like Arlisss, had limited film work in supporting roles, would be cast as Robin, a teacher at the school who Nick develops a crush on while undercover.   The supporting cast would include George Wendt from Cheers, Laura Dern’s mother Diane Ladd, an Oscar nominee for her role as Flo in Martin Scorsese’s Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, veteran character actor Seymour Cassel, an Oscar nominee himself for John Cassavetes’ Faces, Robert Stack, the original Elliot Ness who was yet another former Oscar nominee, Harry Shearer, and the great Abe Vigoda.   The $7.5m film would begin production in the Seattle metro area on May 6th, 1987 and would last for seven weeks, ending on June 30th.    Plain Clothes would open in 193 theatres on April 15th, 1988, including 59 theatres in New York City and eight in Seattle. The reviews would be vicious on the film, with many critics pointing out how ludicrous the plot was, and how distracting it was the filmmakers were trying to pass a thirty two year old actor off as a twenty four year old police officer going undercover as an eighteen year old high school student. Audiences would stay away in droves, with only about 57k people buying a ticket to see the film during the opening three days. A performance so bad, Paramount would end up pulling the film from theatres after seven days at a $289k ticket gross, replacing every screen with another high school-set movie, the similarly-titled Permanent Record, featuring Keanu Reeves, Jennifer Rubin and Kathy Baker, which would also be the final film for Martha Coolidge’s regular co-star Michelle Meyrink, who would quit acting the following year and develop an affinity in Zen Buddhism. She would eventually open her own acting studio in her hometown of Vancouver, British Columbia. Not so coincidentally, Martha Coolidge is one of advisory board members of the school.   There would be one more movie for Martha Coolidge in the 1980s, a made for television mystery called Trenchcoat in Paradise, featuring Dirk Benedict from Battlestar Galactica and The A-Team, Catherine Oxenberg from Dynasty, and Bruce Dern, but it’s not very good and not really work talking about.   As the 80s moved into the 90s, Coolidge would continue to work both in television and in motion pictures.    In 1991, she would direct her Plain Clothes co-star Diane Ladd alongside Ladd’s daughter, Laura Dern, in the Depression-era drama Rambling Rose. But despite unanimous critical consent and Oscar nominations for both Ladd and Dern, the first and only mother-daughter duo to be nominated for the same movie or in the same year, the $7.5m movie would only gross $6.3m.   1993’s Lost in Yonkers would be the 23rd film written by Neil Simon, an adaptation of his 1991 Pulitzer Prize-winning play. Actors Irene Worth and Mercedes Ruehl would reprise their Broadway roles for the film, although Richard Dreyfuss would replace Kevin Spacey in the pivotal role as the gangster uncle of two teenage boys who go to live with their aunt after their mother dies. Despite good reviews, the $15m Lost in Yonkers would only gross about $9m.   Originally written as a starring vehicle for Madonna, the 1994 romantic-comedy Angie would instead star Geena Davis as an office worker in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, who sets her neighborhood upside-down when she decides to become a single mother. Coolidge’s highest budgeted film at $26m, Angie would gross just $9.4m, but would in the years to come become famous for being the first film of James Gandolfini, Michael Rispoli and Aida Turturro, who would all go on to star in five years later.   1995’s Three Wishes is a bizarre fantasy drama with Patrick Swayze and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, about two young boys whose mother starts to fall for a mysterious stranger after their father is reported missing during the Korean War. The $10m film would be the worst reviewed movie of Coolidge’s career, and would barely gross $7m when it was released.   Things would turn around for Coolidge on her next film, Out to Sea. The penultimate film for both Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, this weak but genial romp, according to Janet Maslin of the New York Times, finds the regular co-stars on a Mexico-bound cruise ship, where they must work as dance hosts in order to pay for their trip. Also featuring Golden Girls co-stars Estelle Harris and Rue McClanahan alongside Dyan Cannon and Donald O’Connor, Out to Sea would become her highest grossing film to date, bringing in $29m worth of ticket sales.   While she would make a couple more movies, 2004’s The Prince and Me and 2006’s Material Girls, Coolidge would spend 1999 and the 2000s making her mark on television, directing episodes of CSI, Madame Secretary, Psych and Weeds, amongst dozens of shows, as well as the 1999 HBO film Introducing Dorothy Dandridge, which would not only win its lead star Halle Berry a number of awards including the Emmy, the Golden Globe and the Screen Actors Guild Award, it would be the first screenplay to be produced by a young writer named Shonda Rhimes. Coolidge herself would be nominated for an Emmy and a Golden Globe for Outstanding Directing of a Movie Made for Television.   But her biggest achievement in Hollywood would come in 2002, when Coolidge would become the first female President of the Directors Guild of America. And in addition to being an advisor to Michelle Meyrink’s acting school, she is also a professor of film studies at Chapman University in Southern California.   Thank you for joining us. We’ll talk again soon.   Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about the movies we covered this episode.   The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment.   Thank you again.   Good night.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues his informal miniseries on director Martha Coolidge with a look back at her 1985 cult favorite Real Genius. Starring Val Kilmer in one of his earliest iconic roles, this smart sci-fi comedy follows a teenage prodigy and his brilliant classmates as they unknowingly develop laser technology for a dangerous military project at a Caltech-inspired university. Edward explores the making of Real Genius, from Coolidge’s extensive research with real science students and laser experts to the film’s unusual blend of college comedy, Cold War anxiety, and razor-sharp humor. Plus: why the movie struggled at the box office in 1985 despite its originality, how it became a beloved cable and VHS favorite, and why many fans now consider it one of the smartest and most underrated movies of the decade. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT   From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today.   Before we hop in to today’s episode, I want to thank every person listening, from whatever part of the planet you’re at. Over the nearly four years I’ve been doing this podcast, we’ve had listeners from 171 of the 197 countries, and occasionally it’s very surreal for this California kid who didn’t amount to much of anything growing to think there are people in Myanmar and the Ukraine and other countries dealing with war within their borders who still find time to listen to new episodes of a podcast about 33 plus year old mostly American movies when they’re released. I don’t take your listenership lightly, and I just want you to know that I truly appreciate it. Thank you.   Okay, with that, I would like to welcome you all to Part Three of our informal miniseries on the 1980s movies of director Martha Coolidge.   When we left Ms. Coolidge on our previous episode, her movie Joy of Sex had bombed, miserably. But, lucky for her, she had already been hired to work on Real Genius before Joy of Sex had been released.   The script for Real Genius, co-written by Neal Israel and Pat Proft, the writers of Bachelor Party, had been floating around Hollywood for a few years. It would tell the story of a highly intelligent high school kid named Mitch who would be recruited to attend a prestigious CalTech-like college called Pacific Tech, where he would be teamed with another genius, Chris, to build a special laser with their professor, not knowing the laser is to be used as a weapon to take out enemy combatants from a drone-like plane 30,000 feet above the Earth.   ABC Motion Pictures, a theatrical subsidy of the American television network geared towards creating movies that could be successful in theatres before playing on television, would acquire the screenplay in the early 1980s, but after the relative failure of a number of their initial projects, including National Lampoon’s Class Reunion and Young Doctors in Love, would sell the project off to Columbia Pictures, who would make the film one of the first slate of films to be produced by their sister company Tri-Star Pictures, a joint venture between Columbia, the cable network Home Box Office, and, ironically, the CBS television network, which was also created towards creating movies that could be successful in theatres before playing on television. Tri-Star would assign Brian Grazer, a television producer at Paramount who had segued to movies after meeting with Ron Howard during the actor’s last years on Happy Days, producing Howard’s 1982 film Night Shift and 1984 film Splash, to develop the film.   One of Grazer’s first moves would be to hire Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel, writers on Happy Days who helped to create Laverne and Shirley and Joanie Loves Chachi, to rewrite the script to attract a director. Ganz and Mandel had also written Night Shift and rewrote the script for Splash, and Grazer considered them his lucky charm. After trying to convince Ron Howard to board the project instead of Cocoon, Grazer would create a list of up and coming filmmakers he would want to work with. And toward the top of that list was Martha Coolidge.   Coolidge would naturally gravitate towards Real Genius, and she would have an advantage that no other filmmaker on Grazer’s list would have: her fiancee, Michael Backes, was himself an egghead, a genius in physics and biochemistry who in the years to come would become good friends with the writer and filmmaker Michael Crichton, working as a graphics supervisor on the movie version of Chricton’s book Jurassic Park, a co-writer of the screenplay based on Chricton’s book Rising Sun, and an associate producer on the movie version of Chricton’s book Congo.   Once Coolidge was signed on to direct Real Genius in the spring of 1984, she and Backes would work with former SCTV writer and performer PJ Torokvei as they would spend time talking to dozens of science students at CalTech and USC, researching laser technology, and the policies of the CIA. They would shape the project to something closer to what Grazer said he loved most about its possibility, the possibility of genius. "To me,” Grazer would tell an interviewer around the time of the film’s release, “a genius is someone who can do something magical, like solve a complex problem in his head while I'm still trying to figure out the question. I don't pretend to understand it, but the results are everywhere around us. We work, travel, amuse ourselves and enhance the quality of life through technology, all of which traces back to what was once an abstract idea in the mind of some genius.”   When their revised screenplay got the green light from the studio with an $8m budget, Grazer and Coolidge got to the task of casting the film. While the young genius Mitch was ostensibly the lead character in the film, his roommate Chris would need a star to balance out the relative obscurity of his co-star. A number of young actors in Hollywood would be seen, but their choice would be 25 year old Val Kilmer, whose first movie, Top Secret!, had not yet opened in theatres but had hot buzz going for it as the followup film for the Airplane! writing/directing team of Zucker, Abrahams and Zucker.   Fourteen year old Gabe Jarret, whose only previous film work had been in a minor role in the 1981 Tony Danza/Danny DeVito comedy Going Ape!, would land the coveted role of Mitch, while supporting roles would go to Coolidge’s former costars Michelle Meyrink, Deborah Foreman and Robert Prescott, as well as William Atherton, who at the time was on movie screens as Walter Peck, the main human antagonist to the Ghostbusters, as Chris and Mitch’s duplicitous professor, Jerry Hathaway, and Patti D’Arbanville, who had made a splash on screens in 1981 as Chevy Chase’s long-suffering girlfriend in Modern Problems.   Shooting would begin on Real Genius in Southern California on November 12th, 1984. Most of the film would be shot on sets built at the Hollywood Center Studios, just a few blocks west of the Paramount Studios lot, while several major set pieces, including the memorable finale involving Professor Hathaway’s house, a space laser and 190,000 pounds of popcorn, were shot in the then quiet suburban area of Sand Canyon, a few miles east of Magic Mountain, a popular theme park and filming area about 45mins north of Hollywood Center Studios. Outdoor scenes standing in for the Pacific Tech campus would be filmed at Occidental College in Eagle Rock and Pomona College in Claremont, while some scenes would be filmed at General Atomics outside San Diego, standing in for an Air Force base in the film’s climax. Shooting on the film would finish after the first of the year, giving Coolidge and her editor, Richard Chew, about seven months to get the film in shape for a planned August 7th, 1985, release.   Going in to the Summer 1985 movie season, Real Genius was positioned to be one of the hit films of the summer. They had a hot up and coming star in Val Kilmer, a hot director in Martha Coolidge, and a fairly solid release date in early August. But then, there ended up being an unusual glut of science fiction and sci-fi comedy movies in the marketplace at the same time. In March, Disney released the dinosaur-themed Baby: Secret of the Lost Legend, which was not a good film and bombed pretty bad. In June, there was the artificial intelligence film D.A.R.Y.L., which was not a good film and bombed pretty bad. In July, there was Back to the Future, which was a very good film and became one of the biggest successes of the year, and there was Explorers, Joe Dante’s followup to Gremlins, which featured Ethan Hawke and River Phoenix as teenage boys who build their own spacecraft to explore outer space, and although it was one of the best movies released in the summer of 1985, it too bombed pretty bad.    But then, in a seven day period in early August, we had Weird Science, which was not very good and not very successful, Real Genius, and My Science Project, another Disney movie about a glowing orb thing from outer space that causes a lot of problems for a lazy high school student looking for something to use for his science class final, which is one of the worst movies of the year, and bombed worse than any of the other movies mentioned.   Weird Science, John Hughes’ followup to his surprise hit The Breakfast Club, released only six months earlier, would open on August 1st, and come in fourth place with $4.9m from 1158 theatres. In its second weekend of release, Weird Science would lose 40% of its opening weekend audience, coming in fifth with $2.97m. But that would still be better than Real Genius, which opened on Wednesday, August 5th, which would come in sixth in its opening weekend, with $2.56m from 990 locations. My Science Project, opening on August 7th, could only manage to open in 13th place with $1.5m from 1003 theatres. That would be worse than a reissue of E.T. in its fourth weekend of release.   In its second weekend, Real Genius would only drop 14% of its opening weekend audience, coming in with $2.2m from 956 locations, but after a third weekend, losing a third of its screens and 46% of its second week audience, Real Genius would be shuttled off to the dollar houses, where it would spend another seventeen weeks before exiting theatres with only $12.95m worth of tickets sold.   However, it is my personal opinion is that the film failed to find an audience because it was perceived as being too smart for a simple audience. Real Genius celebrates intelligence. It doesn’t pander to its audience. In many ways, it belittles stupidity, especially Mitch’s moronic parents. Revenge is dished out in the most ingenious ways, especially at the end with Professor Hathaway’s house, to the point where the science behind how Chris and Mitch did what the did is still actively debated thirty-eight years later. Caltech students served as consultants on the film, and played students in the background, while Dr. Martha Gunderson, a physics professor at USC whose vast knowledge about lasers informed the writers during the development stage, played a math professor on screen. Finally, to help promote the film, Martha Coolidge and producer Brian Grazer held the first-ever online press conference through the CompuServe online service, even though there were less than 125,000 on the entire planet who had CompuServe access in August 1985.   Today, the film is rightfully regardless as a classic, but it wouldn’t make Val Kilmer a star quite yet. That, of course, would happen in 1986, when he co-starred as Tom Cruise’s frenemy in Tony Scott’s Top Gun. Gabe Jarret would eventually become Gabriel Jarret, appearing in such movies as Karate Kid 3, Apollo 13 and The American President, and he continues to work in movies and on television to this day. Sadly, the same cannot be said for Michelle Meyrink, who would quit acting three years after making Real Genius, but we’ll talk about that on our next episode. And, of course, William Atherton would cement his reputation as the chucklenut Gen Xers love to hate when he played the cocky television reporter Dick Thornburg in the first two Die Hard movies.   And with that, we come to the end of this episode. Thank you for joining us.    We’ll talk again next week, when Episode 111, on Coolidge’s 1988 comedy Plain Clothes, is released.   Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about the movies we covered this episode.   The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment.   Thank you again.   Good night.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues his unofficial Martha Coolidge miniseries with a look back at her 1984 comedy Joy of Sex, arguably the strangest and most troubled film of her career. Released by Paramount Pictures and loosely inspired by the bestselling sex manual by Alex Comfort, the movie attempted to turn a controversial cultural phenomenon into a mainstream teen comedy… with mixed results. Edward dives into the bizarre production history behind Joy of Sex, including abandoned versions involving Dudley Moore, Monty Python, John Hughes, John Belushi, and director Penny Marshall, before Martha Coolidge finally stepped in under intense studio pressure. Plus: why the film struggled to connect with audiences, its ties to National Lampoon-style comedies, and how a cast featuring Michelle Meyrink, Christopher Lloyd, and Ernie Hudson became trapped in one of the oddest forgotten movies of the 1980s. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT   From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today. Last week, we talked about Martha Coolidge and her 1983 comedy Valley Girl, which celebrated the fortieth anniversary of its release this past Saturday. Today, we’re going to continue talking about Martha Coolidge’s 1980s movies with her follow up effort, Joy of Sex. And, as always, before we get to the main story, there’s some back story to the story we need to visit first. In 1972, British scientist Alex Comfort published the titillatingly titled The Joy of Sex. If you know the book, you know it’s just a bunch of artful drawings of a man and a woman performing various sexual acts, a “how to” manual for the curious and adventurous. Set up to mimic cooking books like Joy of Cooking, Joy of Sex covered the gamut of sexual acts, and would spend more than a year on the New York Times bestseller list, including three months at the top of the list. It wasn’t the kind of book anyone could possibly conceive a major Hollywood studio might ever be interested in making into a movie.  And you’d be right. Sort of.  When a producer named Tom Moore bought the movie rights to the book in 1975, for $100,000 and 20% of the film’s profit, Moore really only wanted the title, because he thought a movie called “Joy of Sex” would be a highly commercial prospect to the millions of people who had purchased the book over the years, especially since porn chic was still kind of “in” at the time. In 1976, Moore would team with Paramount Pictures to further develop the project. They would hire British comedian, actor and writer Dudley Moore to structure the movie as a series of short vignettes not unlike Woody Allen’s Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex But We’re Afraid to Ask. Moore was more interested in writing a single story, about someone not unlike himself in his early 40s coming to grips with being sexually hung up during the era of free love. Moore and the studio could not come to an agreement over the direction of the story, and Moore would, maybe not so ironically, sign on the play a character not unlike himself, in his early 40s, coming to grips with being sexually hung up during the era of free love, in Blake Edwards’ 10. Still wanting to pursue the idea of the movie as a series of short vignettes not unlike Woody Allen’s Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex But We’re Afraid to Ask, Paramount next approached the British comedy troupe Monty Python to work on it, since that’s basically what they did for 45 episodes of their BBC show between 1969 and 1974. But since they had just found success with their first movie, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, they decided to concentrate their efforts on their next movie project. In 1978, Paramount hired actor and comedian Charles Grodin to write the script, telling him it could literally be about anything. Grodin, one of the stealthiest funny people to ever walk the Earth, had written a movie before, an adaptation of the Gerald A. Browne novel 11 Harrowhouse, but he found himself unable to think of anything, finding the ability to write anything he wanted as long as it could somehow be tied to the title to be an albatross around his neck. When Grodin finally turned in a script a few months later, Paramount was horrified to discover he had written a movie about a screenwriter who was having trouble writing a Hollywood movie based on a sex manual. The studio passed and released Grodin from his contract. In 1985, Grodin was able to get that screenplay made into a movie called Movers and Shakers, but despite having a cast that included Grodin, Walter Matthew, Gilda Radner, Bill Macy, and Vincent Gardenia, as well as cameos from Steve Martin and Penny Marshall, the film bombed badly. After the success of The Blues Brothers, John Belushi was hired to star in Joy of Sex, to be directed by Penny Marshall in what was supposed to be her directing debut, produced by Matty Simmons, the publisher of National Lampoon who was looking for another potential hit film to put its name on after their success with Animal House, from a script written by National Lampoon writer John Hughes, which would have been his first produced screenplay. Hughes’ screenplay still would be structured as a series of short vignettes not unlike Woody Allen’s Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex But We’re Afraid to Ask, but Belushi would pass away before filming could begin. Penny Marshall would make her directing debut four years later with the Whoopi Goldberg movie Jumpin’ Jack Flash, while Hughes’ first produced screenplay, National Lampoon’s Class Reunion, would actually begin production four weeks before Belushi died. Belushi kept getting the production start date for Joy of Sex pushed back because of he was working on a screenplay for a movie he really wanted to make, a diamond smuggling caper called Noble Rot, which Paramount had agreed to make if Belushi would make Joy of Sex first. After that, Paramount would hire the unlikely team of screenwriting teacher Syd Field and shock jock Don Imus to try their hand at it, before going back to Hughes, who at one point turned in a draft that was 148 pages long. After the success of Porky’s around this time, Paramount would have the script rewritten again, this time by The Outsiders’ screenwriter Kathleen Rowell, trying to make it into a raunchy comedy. Amy Heckerling, the director of Fast Times, was approached to direct, but she would turn it down because she didn’t want to get pigeonholed as a raunchy sex comedy director. The studio needed to get the film in production by the end of May 1983, or the rights to the book and the title would revert back to its author. After Valley Girl started to get some good buzz just before release, Paramount would approach Coolidge to direct. Although the budget for the film would only be around $5m, Coolidge would earn far more than the $5,000 she made for Valley Girl. So even if she wasn’t too thrilled with the script, it was good money. Maybe she should have waited. The film would begin production in Los Angeles and Santa Monica beginning on May 31st, 1983, literally the day before the movie rights would have reverted back to the author, and Coolidge would only be given twenty-six days to film it. It also didn’t help that the production was working under Paramount’s television division, and the producer, Frank Konigsberg, had never produced a feature film before. This final version of the script she would be working with, credited to Kathleen Rowell and first-time screenwriter, J.J. Salter, would be the nineteenth draft written over the course of eight years, and wouldn’t quite be the raunchfest Paramount was hoping for, but they were literally out of time. To try and make things as comfortable for herself as possible, Coolidge would hire a number of actors and crew members from Valley Girl, and tried to shoot the film, as straight as possible, even with the studio’s request for lots of gratuitous nudity. Michelle Meyrink, one of Julie’s valley girl friends in Coolidge’s previous film, would star as Leslie, a high school senior who tries to lose her virginity when she mistakenly believes she only has six weeks to live, alongside her Valley Girl co-stars Cameron Dye, Colleen Camp and Heidi Holicker. Also on board would be Ernie Hudson, who would go straight from making this film into making Ghostbusters, and Christopher Lloyd, who was still a couple years away from starring as Doc Brown, as Leslie’s dad, a coach at her school. Coolidge’s saving grace was that, despite the pressure to have scenes of nubile young co-eds running naked down the school halls for no good reason, the core of the story was about two teenagers who, while trying to learn about sex, would discover and fall in love with each other. Paramount would set the film for an April 13th, 1984 release, even before Coolidge turned in her first cut of the film. But when she did, that’s when the proverbial poop hit the proverbial fan. Coolidge made the movie she wanted to make, a sweet love story, even with some scenes of gratuitous and unnecessary nudity. Which is not the movie Paramount wanted, even if it was the script they approved. Her relationship with the studio further soured when the first test screening of the film turned out to be a disaster, especially with teenage girls and women, who loved the love story at the center of the film but hated the completely gratuitous and unnecessary nudity. Coolidge would be fired off the film, the television and film departments at Paramount would get into vicious finger pointing arguments about who was to blame for this mess and how they were going to fix it, and Matty Simmons would pay Paramount $250,000 to have National Lampoon’s name removed from the film, claiming the film did not represent what the magazine had originally signed up for. Paramount would cancel the April 1984 release date, while hiring two new editors to try and salvage the mess they felt they were given. The Directors Guild offered to allow Coolidge to take her name off the film and have it credited to Alan Smithee, but she would decide to leave her name on it. Even if the film bombed, it was another directing credit to her name, which could still help her get future jobs. When the new editors finished their work on the film, they had whittled down Coolidge’s original version that ran 115 minutes into a barely cohesive 93 minute mess, and the studio decided to release the film on August 3rd. In the 80s, the entire month of August was pretty much considered a dumping ground for movies, as families were often eschewing going to the movies for their last moments of summer fun before the kids had to go back to school. Opening on 804 screens, Joy of Sex would open in ninth place, grossing an anemic $1.9m in its first three days. Ghostbusters, in its ninth week of release, was still in first place with $6.5m, and it would also get outgrossed by Gremlins, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and The Karate Kid, all three having been released in May or June. After a second weekend where the film would lose nearly 20% of its theatres and 55% of its first week audience, Paramount would stop tracking the film. It’s final reported ticket sales total would be just $3.69m. Because I am cursed with the ability to remember the most mundane things from nearly forty years ago while being unable to remember where I left a screwdriver yesterday, I still remember seeing Joy of Sex. It was on the #1 screen at the Skyview Drive-in in Santa Cruz. It was the A-title, playing a double bill with Cheech and Chong Still Smokin’, which had not done very well when it had been released the previous May. My friends and I would head out to the theatre, Dick and some friends piled in his Impala, me and some friends in my AMC Pacer, with lawn chairs and frosty beverages in the trunks, ready to completely rip apart this film we heard was really bad. And rip it apart we did. I think there were maybe ten cars on our side of the drive-in, plenty of room for a bunch of drunken teenagers to be far away from everyone else and be obnoxious jerks. In 1984, we didn’t have the internet. We didn’t have easy access to the industry newspapers where we may have heard about all the troubles with the production. We just knew the film stunk something foul, and we had one of our most fun evenings at the movies destroying it in our own inimitable way. Not that I was going to give the movie another chance. It stunk. There’s just no two ways about it, but I am now more forgiving of Martha Coolidge now that I know just how impossible a situation she was put in. Ironically, the debacle that was Joy of Sex would be part of the reason I so enjoyed Coolidge’s next film, 1985’s Real Genius so much, because Joy of Sex was still fresher in my mind than Valley Girl. But we’ll talk more about Real Genius on our next episode. Thank you for joining us. Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about Joy of Sex. The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment. Thank you again. Good night.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens looks back at Valley Girl (1983), the beloved teen romance that helped launch the career of Nicolas Cage and established director Martha Coolidge as one of the most exciting filmmakers of the early 1980s. Loosely inspired by Romeo and Juliet and fueled by the Southern California “Valley Girl” phenomenon, the film follows rebellious Hollywood punk Randy and San Fernando Valley teen Julie as they fall for each other despite pressure from friends, expectations, and social divides. Edward explores the fascinating production history behind the movie, from the influence of Frank Zappa and Moon Unit Zappa’s hit song “Valley Girl” to the film’s famously chaotic soundtrack rights issues and how a tiny independent production unexpectedly became one of the defining teen movies of the decade. Plus: why Deborah Foreman deserved a bigger career, how Valley Girl transformed Nicolas Cage into a rising star, and why fans still consider it one of the most iconic and endlessly quotable 80s movies ever made. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT   From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today.   On this episode, we’re going to be looking back at a movie that will be celebrating the fortieth anniversary of its original theatrical release. A movie that would turn one of its leads into a star, and thrust its director into the mainstream, at least for a short time.   We’re talking about the 1983 Martha Coolidge film Valley Girl, which is celebrating the 40th anniversary of its release this Saturday, with a special screening tonight, Thursday, April 27th 2023, at the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood with its director, doing a Q&A session after the show.   But, as always, before we get to Valley Girl, we head back in time.    A whole eleven months, in fact. To May 1982.   That month, the avant-garde musical genius known as Frank Zappa released his 35th album, Ship Arriving Too Late to Save a Drowning Witch. Released on Zappa’s own Barking Pumpkin record label, Drowning Witch would feature a song he co-wrote with his fourteen year old daughter Moon Unit Zappa. Frank would regularly hear his daughter make fun of the young female mallrats she would encounter throughout her days, and one night, Frank would be noodling around in his home recording studio when inspiration struck. He would head up to Moon’s room, wake her up and bring her down to the studio, asking her to just repeat in that silly Valspeak voice she did all the crazy things she heard being said at parties, bar mitzvahs and the Sherman Oaks Galleria shopping center, which would become famous just a couple months later as the mall where many of the kids from Ridgemont High worked in Amy Heckerling’s breakthrough movie, Fast Times at Ridgemont High. For about an hour, Frank would record Moon spouting off typical valley girl phrases, before he sent her back up to her room to go back to sleep.   In a couple days, Frank Zappa would bring his band, which at the time included guitar virtuoso Steve Vai in his first major musical gig, into the home studio to lay down the music to this weird little song he wrote around his daughter’s vocals.   “Valley Girl” wold not be a celebration of the San Fernando Valley, an area Zappa described as “a most depressing place,” or the way these young ladies presented themselves. Zappa in general hated boring generic repetitive music, but “Valley Girl” would be one of the few songs Zappa would ever write or record that followed a traditional 4/4 time signature.   In the spring of 1982, the influential Los Angeles radio station KROQ would obtain an acetate disc of the song, several weeks before Drowning Witch was to be released on an unsuspecting public. Zappa himself thought it was a hoot the station that had broken such bands as The Cars, Duran Duran, The Police, Talking Heads and U2 was even considering playing his song, but KROQ was his daughter’s favorite radio station, and she was able to persuade the station to play the song during an on-air interview with her.   The kids at home went nuts for the song, demanding the station play it again. And again. And again. Other radio stations across the country started to get calls from their listeners, wanting to hear this song that hadn’t been officially released yet, and Zappa’s record label would rush to get copies out to any radio station that asked for it.   The song would prove to be very popular, become the only single of the forty plus he released during his recording career to become a Top 40 radio hit, peaking at number 32. Ironically, the song would popularize the very cadence it was mocking with teenagers around the country, and the next time Zappa and his band The Mothers of Invention would tour, he would apologize to the Zappa faithful for having created a hit record. "The sad truth,” he would say before going into the song, “is that if one continues to make music year after year, eventually something will be popular. I spent my career fighting against creating marketable art, but this one slipped through the cracks. I promise to do my best never to have this happen again."   As the song was becoming popular in Los Angeles, actor Wayne Crawford and producer Andrew Lane had been working on a screenplay about star-crossed lovers that was meant to be a cheap quickie exploitation film not unlike Zapped! or Porky’s. But after hearing Zappa’s song, the pair would quickly rewrite the lead character, Julie, into a valley girl, and retitle their screenplay, Bad Boyz… yes, Boyz, with a Z… as Valley Girl.   Atlantic Entertainment Company, an independent film production company, had recently started their own distribution company, and were looking for movies that could be made quickly, cheaply, and might be able to become some kind of small hit. One of the scripts that would cross their desk were Crawford and Lane’s Valley Girl. Within a week, Atlantic would already have a $350,000 budget set aside to make the film.   The first thing they needed was a director.   Enter Martha Coolidge.   A graduate of the same New York University film program that would give us Joel Coen, Amy Heckerling, Ang Lee, Spike Lee and Todd Phillips, Coolidge had been working under the tutelage of Academy Award-winner Francis Ford Coppola at the filmmaker’s Zoetrope Studios. She had made her directorial debut, Not a Pretty Picture in 1976, but the film, a docu-drama based on Coolidge’s own date rape she suffered at the age of 16, would not find a big audience. She had made another movie, City Girl, with Peter Riegert and Colleen Camp, in 1982, with Peter Bogdanovich as a producer, but the film’s potential release was cancelled when Bogdanovich’s company Moon Pictures went bankrupt after the release of his 1981 movie They All Laughed, which we covered last year. She knew she needed to get on a film with a good chance of getting released, and with Coppola’s encouragement, Coolidge would throw her proverbial hat into the ring, and she would get the job, in part because she had some directing experience, but also because she was willing to accept the $5,000 Atlantic was offering for the position.   Now that she had the job, it was time for Coolidge to get to casting. It was her goal to show an authentic teenage experience in Los Angeles in the early 1980s, absent of stereotypes. As someone whose background was in documentary filmmaking, Coolidge wanted Valley Girl to feel as real as possible.   Her first choice for the role of Randy, the proto-punk Romeo to Julie’s… well, Juliet… Coolidge was keen on a twenty-three year old unknown who had not yet acted in anything in movies, on television, or even a music video. Judd Nelson had been studying with Stella Adler in New York City, and there was something about his look that Coolidge really liked. But when she offered the role to Nelson, he had just booked an acting gig that would make him unavailable when the film would be shooting. So it was back to the pile of headshots that had been sent to the production office. And in that pile, she would find the headshot of eighteen year old Nicolas Cage, who at the time only had one movie credit, as one of Judge Reinhold’s co-workers in Fast Times. Coolidge would show the photo to her casting director, telling them they needed to find someone like him, someone who wasn’t a conventionally handsome movie actor.   So the casting director did just that. Went out and got someone like Nicolas Cage. Specifically, Nicolas Cage.   What Coolidge didn’t know was that Cage’s real name was Nicolas Coppola, and that his uncle was Coolidge’s boss. She would only learn this when she called the actor to offer him the role, and he mentioned he would need to check his schedule on the Coppola movie he was about to start shooting on, Rumble Fish. Francis Coppola made sure the shooting schedule was re-arranged so his nephew could accept his first leading role.   For Julie, Coolidge wanted only one person: Deborah Foreman, a twenty-year-old former model who had only done commercials for McDonalds at this point in her career. Although she was born in Montebello CA, mere miles from the epicenter of the San Fernando Valley, Foreman had spent her formative years in Texas, and knew nothing about the whole Valley Girl phenomenon until she was cast in the film.   Supporting roles would be filled by a number of up and coming young actors, including Elizabeth Daily and Michelle Mayrink as Julie’s friends, Cameron Dye as Randy’s best friend, and Michael Bowen as Julie’s ex-boyfriend, while Julie’s parents would be played by Frederic Forrest and Colleen Camp, two industry veterans who had briefly worked together on Apocalypse Now.   As the scheduled start date of October 25th, 1982, rolled closer, Martha Coolidge would be the first director to really learn just how far Nicolas Cage was willing to go for a role. He would start sleeping in his car, to better understand Randy, and he would, as Randy, write Foreman’s character Julie a poem that, according to a May 2020 New York Times oral history about the film, Foreman still has to this day. In a 2018 IMDb talk with director Kevin Smith, Cage would say that it was easy for his performance to happen in the film because he had a massive crush on Foreman during the making of the film.   Because of the film’s extremely low budget, the filmmakers would often shoot on locations throughout Los Angeles they did not have permits for, stealing shots wherever they could. But one place they would spend money on was the movie’s soundtrack, punctuated by live performances by Los Angeles band The Plimsouls and singer Josie Cotton, which were filmed at the Sunset Strip club now known as The Viper Room.   The film would only have a twenty day shooting schedule, which meant scenes would have to be shot quickly and efficiently, with as few hiccups as possible. But this wouldn’t stop Cage from occasionally improvising little bits that Coolidge loved so much, she would keep them in the film, such as Randy spitting his gum at Julie’s ex, and the breakup scene, where Randy digs into Julie by using Valspeak.   In early January 1983, while the film was still being edited, Frank Zappa would file a lawsuit against the film, seeking $100,000 in damages and an injunction to stop the film from being released, saying the film would unfairly dilute the trademark of his song. The lawsuit would force Coolidge to have a cut of her movie ready to screen for the judge before she was fully done with it. But when Coolidge screened this rushed cut to Atlantic and its lawyers, the distributor was pleasantly surprised to see the director hadn’t just made a quickie exploitation film but something with genuine heart and soul that could probably have a much longer lifespan. They were originally planning on releasing the film during the later part of the summer movie season, but now knowing what they had on their hands, Atlantic would set an April 29th release date… pending, of course, on the outcome of the Zappa lawsuit.   In March, the judge would issue their ruling, in favor of the film, saying there would be no confusion in the public’s mind between the song and the film, and Atlantic would continue to prepare for the late April release.   One of the things Coolidge really fought for was to have a wall of great new wave songs throughout the film, something Atlantic was hesitant to pay for, until they saw Coolidge’s cut. They would spend another $250k on top of the $350k production budget to secure songs from The Psychedelic Furs, The Payolas, Men at Work, Toni Basil, The Flirts and Sparks, on top of the songs played by The Plimsouls and Josie Cotton in the film.   Valley Girl would be one of three new movies opening on April 29th, alongside Disney’s adaptation of the Ray Bradbury story Something Wicked This Way Comes, and The Hunger, the directorial debut of filmmaker Tony Scott. Opening on only 442 screens, Valley Girl would come in fourth place for the weekend, grossing $1.86m in its first three days. However, its $4200 per screen average would be better than every movie in the top 15, including the #1 film in the nation that weekend, Flashdance. Not bad for a film that was only playing in one third of the country.   In its second weekend, Valley Girl would fall to seventh place, with $1.33m worth of ticket sold, but its per screen average would be second only to the new Cheech and Chong movie, Still Smokin’. Over the next three months, the film would continue to perform well, never playing in more screens than it did in its opening weekend, but never falling out of the top 15 while Atlantic was tracking it. When all was said and done, Valley Girl would have grossed $17.34m in the United States, not a bad return on a $600k production and music clearance budget.   There was supposed to be an accompanying soundtrack album for the film that, according to the movie’s poster, would be released on Epic Records, a subsidiary of Columbia Records whose eclectic roster of artists included Michael Jackson, The Clash and Liza Minnelli, but it turns out the filmmakers only ended up only getting music clearances for the movie, so that release would get cancelled and a six-song mini-LP would be created through a label Atlantic Pictures created called Roadshow Records. But then that album got cancelled, even though some copies had been printed, so it wouldn’t be until 1994 that an actual soundtrack for the film would be released by Rhino Records. That release would do so well, Rhino released a second soundtrack album the following year.   The lawsuit from Zappa would not be the only court proceeding concerning the film. In July 1984, Martha Coolidge, her cinematographer, Frederick Elmes, and two of the actresses, Colleen Camp and Lee Purcell, sued Atlantic Releasing for $5m, saying they were owed a portion of the film’s profits based on agreements in their contracts. The two sides would later settle out of court.   Nicolas Cage would, of course, becomes one of the biggest movie stars in the world, winning an Oscar in 1996 for his portrayal of an alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter who goes to Las Vegas to drink himself to death.   Deborah Foreman would not have as successful a career. After Valley Girl, it would be another two years before she was seen on screen again, in what basically amounts to an extended cameo in a movie I’ll get to in a moment. She would have a decent 1986, starring in two semi-successful films, the sexy comedy My Chauffeur and the black comedy April Fool’s Day, but after that, the roles would be less frequent and, often, not the lead. By 1991, she would retire from acting, appearing only in a 2011 music video for the She Wants Revenge song Must Be the One, and a cameo in the 2020 remake of Valley Girl starring Jessica Rothe of the Happy Death Day movies.   After Valley Girl, Martha Coolidge would go on a tear, directing four more movies over the next seven years. And we’ll talk about that first movie, Joy of Sex, on our next episode.   Thank you for joining us.   Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about Valley Girl.   The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment.   Thank you again.   Good night.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens takes a deep dive into the filmography of John Landis with a look back at his strange, stylish, and often overlooked 1985 thriller-comedy Into the Night. Starring Jeff Goldblum as an insomniac aerospace engineer and Michelle Pfeiffer as a mysterious smuggler on the run, the film turns one sleepless night in Los Angeles into a surreal odyssey of hitmen, stolen jewels, celebrity cameos, and unexpected romance. Edward explores the complicated legacy of John Landis in the wake of the Twilight Zone helicopter accident, the unusual production history behind Into the Night, and why a stacked cast featuring David Bowie, Dan Aykroyd, and dozens of blink-and-you’ll-miss-them cameos couldn’t turn the film into a major hit. Plus: how the movie helped connect future collaborators like David Cronenberg and Jonathan Demme with their future stars, and why this quirky late-night Los Angeles noir still deserves rediscovery. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today.   Long time listeners to this show know that I am not the biggest fan of John Landis, the person. I’ve spoken about Landis, and especially about his irresponsibility and seeming callousness when it comes to the helicopter accident on the set of his segment for the 1983 film The Twilight Zone which took the lives of actors Vic Morrow, Myca Dinh Le and Renee Shin-Yi Chen, enough where I don’t wish to rehash it once again.   But when one does a podcast that celebrates the movies of the 1980s, every once in a while, one is going to have to talk about John Landis and his movies. He did direct eight movies, one documentary and a segment in an anthology film during the decade, and several of them, both before and after the 1982 helicopter accident, are actually pretty good films.   For this episode, we’re going to talk about one of his lesser known and celebrated films from the decade, despite its stacked cast.   We’re talking about 1985’s Into the Night.   But, as always, before we get to Into the Night, some backstory.   John David Landis was born in Chicago in 1950, but his family moved to Los Angeles when he was four months old. While he grew up in the City of Angels, he still considers himself a Chicagoan, which is an important factoid to point out a little later in his life.   After graduating from high school in 1968, Landis got his first job in the film industry the way many a young man and woman did in those days: through the mail room at a major studio, his being Twentieth Century-Fox. He wasn’t all that fond of the mail room. Even since he had seen The  7th Voyage of Sinbad at the age of eight, he knew he wanted to be a filmmaker, and you’re not going to become a filmmaker in the mail room. By chance, he would get a job as a production assistant on the Clint Eastwood/Telly Savalas World War II comedy/drama Kelly’s Heroes, despite the fact that the film would be shooting in Yugoslavia. During the shoot, he would become friendly with the film’s co-stars Don Rickles and Donald Sutherland. When the assistant director on the film got sick and had to go back to the United States, Landis positioned himself to be the logical, and readily available, replacement. Once Kelly’s Heroes finished shooting, Landis would spend his time working on other films that were shooting in Italy and the United Kingdom. It is said he was a stuntman on Sergio Leone’s The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, but I’m going to call shenanigans on that one, as the film was made in 1966, when Landis was only sixteen years old and not yet working in the film industry. I’m also going to call shenanigans on his working as a stunt performer on Leone’s 1968 film Once Upon a Time in the West, and Tony Richardson’s 1968 film The Charge of the Light Brigade, and Peter Collinson’s 1969 film The Italian Job, which also were all filmed and released into theatres before Landis made his way to Europe the first time around.   In 1971, Landis would write and direct his first film, a low-budget horror comedy called Schlock, which would star Landis as the title character, in an ape suit designed by master makeup creator Rick Baker. The $60k film was Landis’s homage to the monster movies he grew up watching, and his crew would spend 12 days in production, stealing shots wherever they could  because they could not afford filming permits. For more than a year, Landis would show the completed film to any distributor that would give him the time of day, but no one was interested in a very quirky comedy featuring a guy in a gorilla suit playing it very very straight.   Somehow, Johnny Carson was able to screen a print of the film sometime in the fall of 1972, and the powerful talk show host loved it. On November 2nd, 1972, Carson would have Landis on The Tonight Show to talk about his movie. Landis was only 22 at the time, and the exposure on Carson would drive great interest in the film from a number of smaller independent distributors would wouldn’t take his calls even a week earlier. Jack H. Harris Enterprises would be the victor, and they would first release Schlock on twenty screens in Los Angeles on December 12th, 1973, the top of a double bill alongside the truly schlocky Son of The Blob. The film would get a very good reception from the local press, including positive reviews from the notoriously prickly Los Angeles Times critic Kevin Thomas, and an unnamed critic in the pages of the industry trade publication Daily Variety. The film would move from market to market every few weeks, and the film would make a tidy little profit for everyone involved. But it would be four more years until Landis would make his follow-up film.   The Kentucky Fried Movie originated not with Landis but with three guys from Madison, Wisconsin who started their own theatre troop while attending the University of Wisconsin before moving it to West Los Angeles in 1971. Those guys, brothers David and Jerry Zucker, and their high school friend Jim Abrahams, had written a number of sketches for their stage shows over a four year period, and felt a number of them could translate well to film, as long as they could come up with a way to link them all together. Although they would be aware of Ken Shapiro’s 1974 comedy anthology movie The Groove Tube, a series of sketches shot on videotape shown in movie theatres on the East Coast at midnight on Saturday nights, it would finally hit them in 1976, when Neal Israel’s anthology sketch comedy movie TunnelVision became a small hit in theatres. That movie featured Chevy Chase and Laraine Newman, two of the stars of NBC’s hit show Saturday Night Live, which was the real reason the film was a hit, but that didn’t matter to Zucker, Abrahams and Zucker.   The Zucker/Abrahams/Zucker team decided they needed to not just tell potential backers about the film but show them what they would be getting. They would raise $35,000 to film a ten minute segment, but none of them had ever directed anything for film before, so they would start looking for an experienced director who would be willing to work on a movie like theirs for little to no money.   Through mutual friend Bob Weiss, the trio would meet and get to know John Landis, who would come aboard to direct the presentation reel, if not the entire film should it get funded. That segment, if you’ve seen Kentucky Fried Movie, included the fake trailer for Cleopatra Schwartz, a parody of blaxploitation movies. The guys would screen the presentation reel first to Kim Jorgensen, the owner of the famed arthouse theatre the Nuart here in Los Angeles, and Jorgensen loved it. He would put up part of the $650k budget himself, and he would show the reel to his friends who also ran theatres, not just in Los Angeles, whenever they were in town, and it would be through a consortium of independent movie theatre owners that Kentucky Fried Movie would get financed.   The movie would be released on August 10th, 1977, ironically the same day as another independent sketch comedy movie, Can I Do It Till I Need Glasses?, was released. But Kentucky Fried Movie would have the powerful United Artists Theatres behind them, as they would make the movie the very first release through their own distribution company, United Film Distribution. I did a three part series on UFDC back in 2021, if you’d like to learn more about them. Featuring such name actors as Bill Bixby, Henry Gibson, George Lazenby and Donald Sutherland, Kentucky Fried Movie would earn more than $7m in theatres, and would not only give John Landis the hit he needed to move up the ranks, but it would give Zucker, Abrahams and Zucker the opportunity to make their own movie. But we’ll talk about Airplane! sometime in the future.   Shortly after the release of Kentuck Fried Movie, Landis would get hired to direct Animal House, which would become the surprise success of 1978 and lead Landis into directing The Blues Brothers, which is probably the most John Landis movie that will ever be made. Big, loud, schizophrenic, a little too long for its own good, and filled with a load of in-jokes and cameos that are built only for film fanatics and/or John Landis fanatics. The success of The Blues Brothers would give Landis the chance to make his dream project, a horror comedy he had written more than a decade before.   An American Werewolf in London was the right mix of comedy and horror, in-jokes and great needle drops, with some of the best practical makeup effects ever created for a movie. Makeup effects so good that, in fact, the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences would make the occasionally given Best Makeup Effects Oscar a permanent category, and Werewolf would win that category’s first competitive Oscar.   In 1982, Landis would direct Coming Soon, one of the first direct-to-home video movies ever released. Narrated by Jamie Lee Curtis, Coming Soon was, essentially, edited clips from 34 old horror and thriller trailers for movies owned by Universal, from Frankenstein and Dracula to Psycho and The Birds. It’s only 55 minutes long, but the video did help younger burgeoning cineasts learn more about the history of Universal’s monster movies.   And then, as previously mentioned, there was the accident during the filming of The Twilight Zone.   Landis was able to recover enough emotionally from the tragedy to direct Trading Places with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd in the winter of 1982/83, another hit that maybe showed Hollywood the public wasn’t as concerned about the Twilight Zone accident as they worried it would. The Twilight Zone movie would be released three weeks after Trading Places, and while it was not that big a hit, it wasn’t quite the bomb it was expected to be because of the accident.   Which brings us to Into the Night.   While Landis was working on the final edit of Trading Places, the President of Universal Pictures, Sean Daniels, contacted Landis about what his next project might be. Universal was where Landis had made Animal House, The Blues Brothers and American Werewolf, so it would not be unusual for a studio head to check up on a filmmaker who had made three recent successful films for them. Specifically, Daniels wanted to pitch Landis on a screenplay the studio had in development called Into the Night. Ron Koslow, the writer of the 1976 Sam Elliott drama Lifeguard, had written the script on spec which the studio had picked up, about an average, ordinary guy who, upon discovering his wife is having an affair, who finds himself in the middle of an international incident involving jewel smuggling out of Iran. Maybe this might be something he would be interested in working on, as it would be both right up his alley, a comedy, and something he’d never done before, a romantic action thriller.   Landis would agree to make the film, if he were allowed some leeway in casting.   For the role of Ed Okin, an aerospace engineer whose insomnia leads him to the Los Angeles International Airport in search of some rest, Landis wanted Jeff Goldblum, who had made more than 15 films over the past decade, including Annie Hall, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Big Chill and The Right Stuff, but had never been the lead in a movie to this point. For Diana, the jewel smuggler who enlists the unwitting Ed into her strange world, Landis wanted Michelle Pfeiffer, the gorgeous star of Grease 2 and Scarface. But mostly, Landis wanted to fill as many of supporting roles with either actors he had worked with before, like Dan Aykroyd and Bruce McGill, or filmmakers who were either contemporaries of Landis and/or were filmmakers he had admired. Amongst those he would get would be Jack Arnold, Paul Bartel, David Cronenberg, Jonathan Demme, Richard Franklin, Amy Heckerling, Colin Higgins, Jim Henson, Lawrence Kasdan, Jonathan Lynn, Paul Mazursky, Don Siegel, and Roger Vadim, as well as Jaws screenwriter Carl Gottlieb, Midnight Cowboy writer Waldo Salt, personal trainer to the stars Jake Steinfeld, music legends David Bowie and Carl Perkins, and several recent Playboy Playmates. Landis himself would be featured as one of the four Iranian agents chasing Pfeiffer’s character.   While neither Perkins nor Bowie would appear on the soundtrack to the film, Landis was able to get blues legend B.B. King to perform three songs, two brand new songs as well as a cover of the Wilson Pickett classic In the Midnight Hour.   Originally scheduled to be produced by Joel Douglas, brother of Michael and son of Kirk, Into the Night would go into production on April 2nd, 1984, under the leadership of first-time producer Ron Koslow and Landis’s producing partner George Folsey, Jr.   The movie would make great use of dozens of iconic Los Angeles locations, including the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, the Shubert Theatre in Century City, the Ships Coffee Shot on La Cienega, the flagship Tiffanys and Company in Beverly Hills, Randy’s Donuts, and the aforementioned airport. But on Monday, April 23rd, the start of the fourth week of shooting, the director was ordered to stand trial on charges of involuntary manslaughter due to the accident on the Twilight Zone set. But the trial would not start until months after Into the Night was scheduled to complete its shoot. In an article about the indictment printed in the Los Angeles Times two days later, Universal Studios head Sean Daniels was insistent the studio had made no special plans in the event of Landis’ possible conviction. Had he been found guilty of involuntary manslaughter, Landis was looking at up to six years in prison.   The film would wrap production in early June, and Landis would spend the rest of the year in an editing bay on the Universal lot with his editor, Malcolm Campbell, who had also cut An American Werewolf in London, Trading Places, the Michael Jackson Thriller short film, and Landis’s segment and the Landis-shot prologue to The Twilight Zone.   During this time, Universal would set a February 22nd, 1985 release date for the film, an unusual move, as every movie Landis had made since Kentucky Fried Movie had been released during the summer movie season, and there was nothing about Into the Night that screamed late Winter.   I’ve long been a proponent of certain movies having a right time to be released, and late February never felt like the right time to release a morbid comedy, especially one that takes place in sunny Los Angeles. When Into the Night opened in New York City, at the Loews New York Twin at Second Avenue and 66th Street, the high in the city was 43 degrees, after an overnight low of 25 degrees. What New Yorker wants to freeze his or her butt off to see Jeff Goldblum run around Los Angeles with Michelle Pfeiffer in a light red leather jacket and a thin white t-shirt, if she’s wearing anything at all? Well, actually, that last part wasn’t so bad. But still, a $40,000 opening weekend gross at the 525 seat New York Twin would be one of the better grosses for all of the city. In Los Angeles, where the weather was in the 60s all weekend, the film would gross $65,500 between the 424 seat Avco Cinema 2 in Westwood and the 915 seat Cinerama Dome in Hollywood.   The reviews, like with many of Landis’s films, were mixed.   Richard Corliss of Time Magazine would find the film irresistible and a sparkling thriller, calling Goldblum and Pfeiffer two of the most engaging young actors working. Peter Travers, writing for People Magazine at the time, would anoint the film with a rarely used noun in film criticism, calling it a “pip.” Travers would also call Pfeiffer a knockout of the first order, with a newly uncovered flair for comedy. Guess he hadn’t seen her in the 1979 ABC spin-off of Animal House, called Delta House, in which she played The Bombshell, or in Floyd Mutrix’s 1980 comedy The Hollywood Knights.    But the majority of critics would find plenty to fault with the film. The general critical feeling for the film was that it was too inside baseball for most people, as typified by Vincent Canby in his review for the New York Times. Canby would dismiss the film as having an insidey, which is not a word, manner of a movie made not for the rest of us but for the moviemakers on the Bel Air circuit who watch each other’s films in their own screening room.   After two weeks of exclusive engagements in New York and Los Angeles, Universal would expand the film to 1096 screens on March 8th, where the film would gross $2.57m, putting it in fifth place for the weekend, nearly a million dollars less than fellow Universal Pictures film The Breakfast Club, which was in its fourth week of release and in ninety fewer theatres. After a fourth weekend of release, where the film would come in fifth place again with $1.95m, now nearly a million and a half behind The Breakfast Club, Universal would start to migrate the film out of first run theatres and into dollar houses, in order to make room for another film of theirs, Peter Bogdanovich’s comeback film Mask, which would be itself expanding from limited release to wide release on March 22nd. Into the Night would continue to play at the second-run theatres for months, but its final gross of $7.56m wouldn’t even cover the film’s $8m production budget.   Despite the fact that it has both Jeff Goldblum and Michelle Pfeiffer as its leads, Into the Night would not become a cult film on home video the way that many films neglected by audiences in theatres would find a second life.   I thought the film was good when I saw it opening night at the Aptos Twin. I enjoyed the obvious chemistry between the two leads, and I enjoyed the insidey manner in which there were so many famous filmmakers doing cameos in the film. I remember wishing there was more of David Bowie, since there were very few people, actors or musicians, who would fill the screen with so much charm and charisma, even when playing a bad guy. And I enjoyed listening to B.B. King on the soundtrack, as I had just started to get into the blues during my senior year of high school.   I revisited the film, which you can rent or buy on Apple TV, Amazon and several other major streaming services, for the podcast, and although I didn’t enjoy the film as much as I remember doing so in 1985, it was clear that these two actors were going to become big stars somewhere down the road. Goldblum, of course, would become a star the following year, thanks to his incredible work in David Cronenberg’s The Fly. Incidentally, Goldblum and Cronenberg would meet for the first time on the set of Into the Night. And, of course, Michelle Pfeiffer would explode in 1987, thanks to her work with Susan Sarandon, Cher and Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick, which she would follow up with not one, not two but three powerhouse performances of completely different natures in 1988, in Jonathan Demme’s Married to the Mob, Robert Towne’s Tequila Sunrise, and her Oscar-nominated work in Stephen Frears’ Dangerous Liaisons. Incidentally, Pfeiffer and Jonathan Demme would also meet for the first time on the set of Into the Night, so maybe it was kismet that all these things happened in part because of the unusual casting desires of John Landis.   Thank you for joining us. We’ll talk again soon, when Episode 108, on Martha Coolidge’s Valley Girl, is released.     Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about Into the Night.   The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment.   Thank you again.   Good night.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens looks back at the bizarre history of Up the Academy (1980), the only major Hollywood studio comedy directed by cult independent filmmaker Robert Downey Sr. and a forgotten attempt by Mad Magazine to create its own version of National Lampoon’s Animal House. Featuring an early role from Ralph Macchio years before The Karate Kid, the film followed a group of rebellious cadets at a chaotic military academy, and quickly became one of the strangest studio comedies of the early 1980s. Edward dives into the unusual production history behind Up the Academy, why Mad Magazine publisher Bill Gaines tried to distance the magazine from the movie, how the film unexpectedly turned a profit despite poor reviews, and what happened to the career of counterculture filmmaker Robert Downey Sr. after his one Hollywood experiment. Plus: the surprising connections to Animal House, the early career of Ralph Macchio, and the legacy of one of the weirdest forgotten comedies of the decade. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT   From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today.   On this episode, we follow up on a movie based on a series of articles from a humor magazine that was trying to build their brand name by slapping their name on movies with a movie that was sponsored by a humor magazine trying to build their brand name by slapping their name on movies not unlike the other humor magazine had been doing but ended up removing their name from the movie, and boy is brain already fried and we’re not even a minute into the episode.   We’re talking about Robert Downey’s 1980 comedy Up the Academy.   But, as always, before we get to Up the Academy, let’s hit the backstory.   If you know the name Robert Downey, it’s likely because you know his son. Robert Downey, Jr. You know, Iron Man. Yes, Robert Downey, Jr. is a repo baby. Maybe you’ve seen the documentary he made about his dad, Sr., that was released by Netflix last year. But it’s more than likely you’ve never heard of Robert Downey, Sr., who, ironically, was a junior himself like his son.   Robert Downey was born Robert John Elias, Jr. in New York City in 1936, the son of a model and a manager of hotels and restaurants. His parents would divorce when he was young, and his mom would remarry while Robert was still in school.   Robert Elias, Jr. would take the last name of his stepfather when he enlisted in the Army, in part because was wanted to get away from home but he was technically too young to actually join the Army. He would invent a whole new persona for himself, and he would, by his own estimate, spend the vast majority of his military career in the stockade, where he wrote his first novel, which still has never been published.   After leaving the Army, Downey would spend some time playing semi-pro baseball, not quite good enough to go pro, spending his time away from the game writing plays he hoped to take, if not to Broadway, at least off-Broadway. But he would not make his mark in the arts until 1961, when Downey started to write and direct low-budget counterculture short films, starting with Ball’s Bluff, about a Civil War soldier who wakes up in New York City’s Central Park a century later.   In 1969, he would write and direct a satirical film about the only black executive at a Madison Avenue advertising firm who is, through a strange circumstance, becomes the head of the firm when its chairman unexpectedly passes away. Featuring a cameo by Mel Brooks Putney Swope was the perfect anti-establishment film for the end of that decade, and the $120k film would gross more than $2.75m during its successful year and a half run in theatres.   1970’s Pound, based on one of Downey’s early plays, would be his first movie to be distributed by a major distributor, although it was independently produced outside the Hollywood system. Several dogs, played by humans, are at a pound, waiting to be euthanized. Oh, did I forget to mention it was a comedy? The film would be somewhat of a success at the time, but today, it’s best known as being the acting debut of the director’s five year old son, Robert Downey, Jr., although the young boy would be credited as Bob Downey.   1972’s Greaser Palace was part of an early 1970s trend of trippy “acid Westerns,” like Alejandro Jodorowsky’s El Topo and Dennis Hopper’s The Last Movie. Character actor Allan Arbus plays Jesse, a man with amnesia who heals the sick, resurrects the dead and tap dances on water on the American frontier. It would be the first movie Downey would make with a million dollar budget. The critical consensus of the film at the time was not positive, although Jay Cocks, a critic for Time Magazine who would go on to be a regular screenwriter for Martin Scorsese in the 1980s, would proclaim the film to be “the most adventurous movie of the year.” The film was not a hit, and it would be decades before it would be discovered and appreciated by the next generation of cineastes.   After another disappointing film, 1975’s Moment to Moment, which would later be retitled Two Tons of Turquoise to Taos Tonight in order to not be confused with the 1978 movie of the same name starring John Travolta and Lily Tomlin that really, truly stunk, Downey would take some time off from filmmaking to deal with his divorce from his first wife and to spend more time with his son Robert and daughter Allyson.   By 1978, Robert Downey was ready to get back to work. He would get a job quickly helping Chuck Barris write a movie version of Barris’ cult television show, The Gong Show, but that wasn’t going to pay the bills with two teenagers at home. What would, though, is the one thing he hadn’t done yet in movies…   Direct a Hollywood film.   Enter Mad Magazine.   In 1978, Mad Magazine was one of the biggest humor magazines in America. I had personally discovered Mad in late 1977, when my dad, stepmom and I were on a cross country trip, staying with friends outside Detroit, the day before my tenth birthday, when I saw an issue of Mad at a local grocery store, with something Star Wars-y on its cover. I begged my dad to give me the sixty cents to buy it, and I don’t think I missed another issue for the next decade.   Mad’s biggest competition in the humor magazine game was National Lampoon, which appealed to a more adult funny bone than Mad. In 1978, National Lampoon saw a huge boost in sales when the John Landis-directed comedy Animal House, which had the name of the magazine in the title, became an unexpected smash hit at the box office. Warner Brothers, the media conglomerate who happened to own Mad Magazine, was eager to do something similar, and worked with Mad’s publisher, Bill Gaines, to find the right script that could be molded into a Mad Magazine movie, even if, like Animal House, it wouldn’t have any real connection to the magazine itself.   They would find that script in The Brave Young Men of Weinberg, a comedy script by Tom Patchett and Jay Tarses, a pair of television comedy writers on shows like The Carol Burnett Show, The Sandy Duncan Show, The Bob Newhart Show and The Tony Randall Show, who had never sold a movie script before. The story would follow the misadventures of four teenage boys who, for different reasons, depend on each other for their very survival when they end up at the same military academy.   Now, of all the research I’ve done for this episode, the one very important aspect of the production I was never able to find out was exactly how Robert Downey became involved in the film. Again, he had never made a Hollywood movie before. He had only made one movie with a budget of a million dollars. His movies were satirical and critical of society in general. This was not a match made in heaven. But somehow, someone at Warner Brothers thought he’d be the right director for the film, and somehow, Downey didn’t disagree.   Unlike Animal House, Downey and Warners didn’t try to land a known commodity like John Belushi to play one of the four leads. In fact, all four of the leads, Wendell Brown, Tommy Citera, Joseph Hutchinson, and Ralph Macchio, would all be making their feature debuts.    But there would be some familiar faces in the film.   Ron Liebman, who was a familiar face from such films has Slaughterhouse-Five, Won Ton Ton: The Dog Who Saved Hollywood and Norma Rae, would play the head of the Academy. Tom Poston, who played Mindy’s downstairs neighbor on Mork and Mindy, plays what would now be considered to be a rather offensive gay caricature as the guy who handles the uniforms of the cadets, Antonio Fargas, best known as Huggy Bear on Starsky and Hutch but who had previously worked with Downey on Putney Swope and Pound, as the Coach, and Barbara Bach, who had starred as Anya Amasova in the 1977 Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me.   The $5m film would begin production in Salina, Kansas, on September 17th, 1979, still using the title The Brave Young Men of Weinberg. The primary shooting location would be the St. John’s Military School, which was still functioning while the film was in production, and would use most of the 144 students as extras during the shoot. The film would shoot for nine weeks without much incident, and the cast and crew would be home in time to enjoy Thanksgiving with their friends and family.   Unlike Animal House, the makers of The Brave Young Men of Weinberg did attempt to tie the movie into the magazine that would be presenting the film. At the very end of the movie, the magazine’s mascot, Alfred E. Neuman, shows up on the side of the road, to wave goodbye to people and deliver his signature line, “What, Me Worry?” in a thought bubble that leads into the end credits. The person wearing the not quite realistic looking Neuman head gear, fourteen year old Scott Shapiro, was the son of the executive vice president of worldwide production at Warner Brothers.   After the first of the year, as Downey worked on his edit of the film, the studio decided to change the title from The Brave Young Men of Weinberg to Mad Magazine Presents Up the Academy. Bill Gaines, the publisher of Mad Magazine, suggested a slightly different title, Mad Magazine Completely Disassociates Itself from Up the Academy, but the studio decided that was too long for theater marquees. But we’ll come back to that in a moment.   Warner Brothers set a June 6, 1980 release for the film, and Downey would finish his cut of the film by the end of March. A screening on the Warners lot in early April did not go well. Ron Liebman hated the film so much, he demanded that Warners completely remove his name from everything associated with the film. His name would not appear on the poster, the newspaper ads, the television commercials, the lobby cards, the press kit, or even in the movie itself. Bill Gaines would hate it to, such much in fact that he really did try to disassociate the magazine from the film. In a 1983 interview with The Comics Journal, Gaines would explain without much detail that there were a number of things he had objected to in the script that he was told would not be shot and not end up in the final film that were shot and did end up in the final film. But he wouldn’t be able to get the magazine’s name off the movie before it opened in theatres.   Now, one of the problems with trying to research how well films did in 1980 is that you really have only two sources for grosses, Variety and The Hollywood Reporter, and they didn’t always report national grosses every week, depending on outside factors. It just hadn’t the national sport it’s been since, say, 1983.   So when Up the Academy opened in theatres on June 6th, we don’t have a full idea of how many theatres it played in nationwide, or how much it grossed. The closest thing we do have for this Variety’s listing of the top movies of the week based on a limited selection of showcase theatres in the top 20 markets. So we know that the film played at 7 showcase screens in New York City that weekend, grossing $175k, and in Los Angeles on 15 showcase screens, grossing $149k. But we also know, thanks to newspaper ads in the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times that the film was playing in 11 theatres in the New York Metro area, and in 30 theatres in the Los Angeles Metro area, so those listed grosses are merely a snapshot and not the whole picture.   According to Variety’s limited tracking of major market showcase theatres for the week, Up the Academy was the second highest grossing film of the week, bringing in $729k from 82 theatres. And according to their chart’s side notes, this usually accounts for about 25% of a movie’s national gross, if a film is playing in wide release around the entire country.   In its second week, Up the Academy would place ninth on that showcase theatre listing, with $377k from 87 theatres.    But by the time Variety did bring back proper national grosses in the film’s third week of release, there would be no mention of Up the Academy in those listings, as Warners by this time had bigger fish to handle, namely Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of the Stephen King novel The Shining, and Bronco Billy, their Clint Eastwood movie for the year. In that showcase theatre listing, though, Up the Academy had fallen to 16th place, with $103k from 34 theatres.   In fact, there is no publicly available record of how many theatres Up the Academy played in during its theatrical run, and it wouldn’t be until the 1981 Warner Brothers 10-K annual filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission that Up the Academy had earned $10m from American movie theatres. If studios get about 55% of the box office grosses in rental fees, that would put the $5m film in a very good position to be profitable, depending on how much was spent on P&A, prints and advertising. The film wasn’t an Animal House-level hit, but it wasn’t exactly the bomb many have painted it to be.    After Up the Academy, two of the actors, Wendell Brown and Joseph Hutchinson, would never act in another movie, although, billed as Hutch Parker, the latter would produce six X-Men related movies between 2013 and 2019, including Logan. Tommy Citera would make two more movies until he left acting in 1988. And Ralph Macchio would, of course, go on to play Daniel LaRusso, the Karate Kid, in a career-defining role that he’s still playing nearly forty years later.   Robert Downey would make another wacky comedy, called Moonbeam, in 1982. Co-written with Richard Belzer, Moonbeam would feature a fairly interesting cast including Zack Norman, Tammy Grimes, Michael J. Pollard, Liz Torres and Mr. Belzer, and tells the story of a New York cable television station that becomes world famous when they accidentally bounce their signal off the moon. But the film would not get released until October 1986, in one theatre in New York City for one week. It couldn’t even benefit from being able to promote Robert Downey, Jr., who in the ensuing years had started to build an acting career by being featured in John Sayles’ Baby It’s You, Fritz Kiersch’s Tuff Turf, John Hughes’ Weird Science, and the Rodney Dangerfield movie Back to School, as well as being a member of the cast of Saturday Night Live for a year.   There’s be sporadic work in television, working on shows like Matlock and The Twilight Zone, but what few movies he could get made would be pale shadows of her earlier, edgier work. Even with his son regularly taking supporting roles in his dad’s movies to help the old man out, movies like Rented Lips and Too Much Sun would be critically panned and ignored by audiences. His final movie as a writer and director, Hugo Pool, would gross just $13k when it was released in December 1997, despite having a cast that included Patrick Dempsey, Richard Lewis, Malcolm McDowell, Alyssa Milano, Cathy Moriarty and Sean Penn, along with Junior.   Downey would also continue to act in other director’s movies, including two written and directed by one of his biggest fans, Paul Thomas Anderson. Downey would play Burt, the studio manager, in Boogie Nights, and the WDKK Show director in Magnolia. Anderson adored Downey so much, the Oscar-nominated filmmaker would sit down with Downey for a four-part conversation filmed for the Criterion Company in 2013.   Robert Downey would pass away in July 2021, a curious footnote in the history of cinema, mostly because of the superstar he sired. Most of his movies are hard to find on video, and nearly impossible to find on streaming services, outside of a wonderful two disc DVD set issued by Criterion’s Eclipse specialty label and several titles streaming on The Criterion Channel. Outside of Up the Academy, which is available to rent or purchase from Amazon, Apple TV and several other streaming services, you can find Putney Swope, Greaser’s Palace and Too Much Sun on several of the more popular streaming services, but the majority of them are completely missing in action. You can also learn more about Robert Downey in Sr., a documentary streaming on Netflix produced by Robert Downey, Jr. where the son recounts the life and career of his recently passed father, alongside Paul Thomas Anderson, Alan Arkin, and mega-producer Norman Lear.   Thank you for joining us. We’ll talk again soon, when Episode 107, on John Landis’s underrated 1985 comedy Into the Night, is released.   Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about the movies we covered this episode.   The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment.   Thank you again.   Good night.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens dives into one of the strangest entries in the career of legendary filmmaker Robert Altman: O.C. and Stiggs (1987), a chaotic teen satire adapted from the pages of National Lampoon. Originally filmed in 1983 but shelved for years by MGM, the movie follows two suburban pranksters waging war against consumerism, authority, and one deeply unfortunate Arizona family in what may be Altman’s most divisive film. Edward explores the bizarre production and release history behind O.C. and Stiggs, from Altman’s unusual working methods and reported clashes with MGM to the film’s delayed release after years sitting on the shelf. Plus: the surprising cast packed with future stars including Jon Cryer and Cynthia Nixon, why the movie struggled to connect with audiences, and whether this misunderstood cult curiosity deserves a second look or really is the low point of Altman’s legendary career. ----more---- TRANSCRIPT   From Los Angeles, California, the Entertainment Capital of the World, it’s The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today.   On this episode, we’re going to talk about one of the strangest movies to come out of the decade, not only for its material, but for who directed it.   Robert Altman’s O.C. and Stiggs.   As always, before we get to the O.C. and Stiggs, we will be going a little further back in time.   Although he is not every cineaste’s cup of tea, it is generally acknowledged that Robert Altman was one of the best filmmakers to ever work in cinema. But he wasn’t an immediate success when he broke into the industry.   Born in Kansas City in February 1925, Robert Altman would join the US Army Air Force after graduating high school, as many a young man would do in the days of World War II. He would train to be a pilot, and he would fly more than 50 missions during the war as part of the 307th Bomb Group, operating in the Pacific Theatre. They would help liberate prisoners of war held in Japanese POW Camps from Okinawa to Manila after the victory over Japan lead to the end of World War II in that part of the world.   After the war, Altman would move to Los Angeles to break into the movies, and he would even succeed in selling a screenplay to RKO Pictures called Bodyguard, a film noir story shot in 1948 starring Lawrence Tierney and Priscilla Lane, but on the final film, he would only share a “Story by” credit with his then-writing partner, George W. George. But by 1950, he’d be back in Kansas City, where he would direct more than 65 industrial films over the course of three years, before heading back to Los Angeles with the experience he would need to take another shot.   Altman would spend a few years directing episodes of a drama series called Pulse of the City on the DuMont television network and a syndicated police drama called The Sheriff of Cochise, but he wouldn’t get his first feature directing gig until 1957, when a businessman in Kansas City would hire the thirty-two year old to write and direct a movie locally. That film, The Delinquents, cost only $60k to make, and would be purchased for release by United Artists for $150k. The first film to star future Billy Jack writer/director/star Tom Laughlin, The Delinquents would gross more than a million dollars in theatres, a very good sum back in those days, but despite the success of the film, the only work Altman could get outside of television was co-directing The James Dean Story, a documentary set up at Warner Brothers to capitalize on the interest in the actor after dying in a car accident two years earlier.   Throughout the 1960s, Altman would continue to work in television, until he was finally given another chance to direct a feature film. 1967’s Countdown was a lower budgeted feature at Warner Brothers featuring James Caan in an early leading role, about the space race between the Americans and Soviets, a good two years before Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon. The shoot itself was easy, but Altman would be fired from the film shortly after filming was completed, as Jack Warner, the 75 year old head of the studio, was not very happy about the overlapping dialogue, a motif that would become a part of Altman’s way of making movies. Although his name appears in the credits as the director of the film, he had no input in its assembly. His ambiguous ending was changed, and the film would be edited to be more family friendly than the director intended.   Altman would follow Countdown with 1969’s That Cold Day in the Park, a psychological drama that would be both a critical and financial disappointment.   But his next film would change everything.   Before Altman was hired by Twentieth-Century Fox to direct MASH, more than a dozen major filmmakers would pass on the project. An adaptation of a little known novel by a Korean War veteran who worked as a surgeon at one of the Mobile Auxiliary Surgical Hospitals that give the story its acronymic title, MASH would literally fly under the radar from the executives at the studio, as most of the $3m film would be shot at the studio’s ranch lot in Malibu, while the executives were more concerned about their bigger movies of the year in production, like their $12.5m biographical film on World War II general George S. Patton and their $25m World War II drama Tora! Tora! Tora!, one of the first movies to be a Japanese and American co-production since the end of the war.    Altman was going to make MASH his way, no matter what. When the studio refused to allow him to hire a fair amount of extras to populate the MASH camp, Altman would steal individual lines from other characters to give to background actors, in order to get the bustling atmosphere he wanted. In order to give the camp a properly dirty look, he would shoot most of the outdoor scenes with a zoom lens and a fog filter with the camera a reasonably far distance from the actors, so they could act to one another instead of the camera, giving the film a sort of documentary feel. And he would find flexibility when the moment called for it. Sally Kellerman, who was hired to play Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan, would work with Altman to expand and improve her character to be more than just eye candy, in large part because Altman liked what she was doing in her scenes.   This kind of flexibility infuriated the two major stars of the film, Elliott Gould and Donald Sutherland, who at one point during the shoot tried to get Altman fired for treating everyone in the cast and crew with the same level of respect and decorum regardless of their position. But unlike at Warners a couple years earlier, the success of movies like Bonnie and Clyde and Easy Rider bamboozled Hollywood studio executives, who did not understand exactly what the new generation of filmgoers wanted, and would often give filmmakers more leeway than before, in the hopes that lightning could be captured once again.   And Altman would give them exactly that.   MASH, which would also be the first major studio film to be released with The F Word spoken on screen, would not only become a critical hit, but become the third highest grossing movie released in 1970, grossing more than $80m. The movie would win the Palme D’Or at that year’s Cannes Film Festival, and it would be nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Supporting Actress for Ms. Kellerman, winning only for Best Adapted Screenplay. An ironic win, since most of the dialogue was improvised on set, but the victory for screenwriter Ring Lardner Jr. would effectively destroy the once powerful Hollywood Blacklist that had been in place since the Red Scare of the 1950s.   After MASH, Altman went on one of the greatest runs any filmmaker would ever enjoy.   MASH would be released in January 1970, and Altman’s follow up, Brewster McCloud, would be released in December 1970. Bud Cort, the future star of Harold and Maude, plays a recluse who lives in the fallout shelter of the Houston Astrodome, who is building a pair of wings in order to achieve his dream of flying. The film would feature a number of actors who already were featured in MASH and would continue to be featured in a number of future Altman movies, including Sally Kellerman, Michael Murphy, John Schuck and Bert Remson, but another reason to watch Brewster McCloud if you’ve never seen it is because it is the film debut of Shelley Duvall, one of our greatest and least appreciated actresses, who would go on to appear in six other Altman movies over the ensuing decade.   1971’s McCabe and Mrs. Miller, for me, is his second best film. A Western starring Warren Beatty and Julie Christie, was a minor hit when it was first released but has seen a reevaluation over the years that found it to be named the 8th Best Western of all time by the American Film Institute, which frankly is too low for me. The film would also bring a little-known Canadian poet and musician to the world, Leonard Cohen, who wrote and performed three songs for the soundtrack. Yeah, you have Robert Altman to thank for Leonard Cohen.   1972’s Images was another psychological horror film, this time co-written with English actress Susannah York, who also stars in the film as an author of children’s books who starts to have wild hallucinations at her remote vacation home, after learning her husband might be cheating on her. The $800k film was one of the first to be produced by Hemdale Films, a British production company co-founded by Blow Up actor David Hemmings, but the film would be a critical and financial disappointment when it was released Christmas week. But it would get nominated for an Academy Award for Best Original Dramatic Score. It would be one of two nominations in the category for John Williams, the other being The Poseidon Adventure.   Whatever resentment Elliott Gould may have had with Altman during the shooting of MASH was gone by late 1972, when the actor agreed to star in the director’s new movie, a modern adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s 1953 novel The Long Goodbye. Gould would be the eighth actor to play the lead character, Phillip Marlowe, in a movie. The screenplay would be written by Leigh Brackett, who Star Wars nerds know as the first writer on The Empire Strikes Back but had also adapted Chandler’s novel The Big Sleep, another Phillip Marlowe story, to the big screen back in 1946.   Howard Hawks and Peter Bogdanovich had both been approached to make the film, and it would be Bogdanovich who would recommend Altman to the President of United Artists. The final film would anger Chandler fans, who did not like Altman’s approach to the material, and the $1.7m film would gross less than $1m when it was released in March 1973. But like many of Altman’s movies, it was a big hit with critics, and would find favor with film fans in the years to come.   1974 would be another year where Altman would make and release two movies in the same calendar year. The first, Thieves Like Us, was a crime drama most noted as one of the few movies to not have any kind of traditional musical score. What music there is in the film is usually heard off radios seen in individual scenes. Once again, we have a number of Altman regulars in the film, including Shelley Duvall, Bert Remsen, John Schuck and Tom Skerritt, and would feature Keith Carradine, who had a small co-starring role in McCabe and Mrs. Miller, in his first major leading role. And, once again, the film would be a hit with critics but a dud with audiences. Unlike most of Altman’s movies of the 1970s, Thieves Like Us has not enjoyed the same kind of reappraisal.   The second film, California Split, was released in August, just six months after Thieves Like Us. Elliott Gould once again stars in a Robert Altman movie, this time alongside George Segal. They play a pair of gamblers who ride what they think is a lucky streak from Los Angeles to Reno, Nevada, would be the only time Gould and Segal would work closely together in a movie, and watching California Split, one wishes there could have been more. The movie would be an innovator seemingly purpose-build for a Robert Altman movie, for it would be the first non-Cinerama movie to be recorded using an eight track stereo sound system. More than any movie before, Altman could control how his overlapping dialogue was placed in a theatre. But while most theatres that played the movie would only play it in mono sound, the film would still be a minor success, bringing in more than $5m in ticket sales.   1975 would bring what many consider to be the quintessential Robert Altman movie to screens.   The two hour and forty minute Nashville would feature no less than 24 different major characters, as a group of people come to Music City to be involved in a gala concert for a political outsider who is running for President on the Replacement Party ticket. The cast is one of the best ever assembled for a movie ever, including Ned Beatty, Karen Black, Ronee Blakely, Keith Carradine, Geraldine Chaplin, Robert DoQui, Shelley Duvall, Allen Garfield, Henry Gibson, Scott Glenn, Jeff Goldblum, Barbara Harris, Cristina Raines, Lily Tomlin and Keenan Wynn.   Altman would be nominated for two Academy Awards for the film, Best Picture, as its producer, and Best Director, while both Ronee Blakely and Lily Tomlin would be nominated for Best Supporting Actress. Keith Carradine would also be nominated for an Oscar, but not as an actor. He would, at the urging of Altman during the production of the film, write and perform a song called I’m Easy, which would win for Best Original Song. The $2.2m film would earn $10m in ticket sales, and would eventually become part of the fourth class of movies to be selected for preservation by the National Film Registry in 1991, the first of four Robert Altman films to be given that honor. MASH, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, and The Long Goodbye would also be selected for preservation over the years.   And we’re going to stop here for a second and take a look at that list of films again.   MASH Brewster McCloud McCabe and Mrs. Miller Images The Long Goodbye Thieves Like Us California Split Nashville   Eight movies, made over a five year period, that between them earned twelve Academy Award nominations, four of which would be deemed so culturally important that they should be preserved for future generations.   And we’re still only in the middle of the 1970s.   But the problem with a director like Robert Altman, like many of our greatest directors, their next film after one of their greatest successes feels like a major disappointment. And his 1976 film Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull's History Lesson, and that is the complete title of the film by the way, did not meet the lofty expectations of film fans not only its director, but of its main stars. Altman would cast two legendary actors he had not yet worked with, Paul Newman and Burt Lancaster, and the combination of those two actors with this director should have been fantastic, but the results were merely okay. In fact,  Altman would, for the first time in his career, re-edit a film after its theatrical release, removing some of the Wild West show acts that he felt were maybe redundant.   His 1977 film 3 Women would bring Altman back to the limelight. The film was based on a dream he had one night while his wife was in the hospital. In the dream, he was directing his regular co-star Shelley Duvall alongside Sissy Spacek, who he had never worked with before, in a story about identity theft that took place in the deserts outside Los Angeles. He woke up in the middle of the dream, jotted down what he could remember, and went back to sleep. In the morning, he didn’t have a full movie planned out, but enough of one to get Alan Ladd, Jr., the President of Twentieth-Century Fox, to put up $1.7m for a not fully formed idea. That’s how much Robert Altman was trusted at the time. That, and Altman was known for never going over budget. As long as he stayed within his budget, Ladd would let Altman make whatever movie he wanted to make. That, plus Ladd was more concerned about a $10m movie he approved that was going over budget over in England, a science fiction movie directed by the guy who did American Graffiti that had no stars outside of Sir Alec Guinness.   That movie, of course, was Star Wars, which would be released four weeks after 3 Women had its premiere in New York City. While the film didn’t make 1/100th the money Star Wars made, it was one of the best reviewed movies of the year. But, strangely, the film would not be seen again outside of sporadic screenings on cable until it was released on DVD by the Criterion Collection 27 years later.   I’m not going to try and explain the movie to you. Just trust me that 3 Women is from a master craftsman at the top of his game.   While on the press tour to publicize 3 Women, a reporter asked Altman what was going to be next for him. He jokingly said he was going to shoot a wedding. But then he went home, thought about it some more, and in a few weeks, had a basic idea sketched out for a movie titled A Wedding that would take place over the course of one day, as the daughter of a Southern nouveau riche family marries the son of a wealthy Chicago businessman who may or may not a major figure in The Outfit.   And while the film is quite entertaining, what’s most interesting about watching this 1978 movie in 2023 is not only how many great established actors Altman got for the film, including Carol Burnett, Paul Dooley, Howard Duff, Mia Farrow, Vittorio Gassman, Lauren Hutton, and, in her 100th movie, Lillian Gish, but the number of notable actors he was able to get because he shot the film just outside Chicago. Not only will you see Dennis Christopher just before his breakthrough in Breaking Away, and not only will you see Pam Dawber just before she was cast alongside Robin Williams in Mark and Mindy, but you’ll also see Dennis Franz, Laurie Metcalfe, Gary Sinese, Tim Thomerson, and George Wendt.   And because Altman was able to keep the budget at a reasonable level, less than $1.75m, the film would be slightly profitable for Twentieth Century-Fox after grossing $3.6m at the box office.   Altman’s next film for Fox, 1979’s Quintet, would not be as fortunate.   Altman had come up with the story for this post-apocalyptic drama as a vehicle for Walter Hill to write and direct. But Hill would instead make The Warriors, and Altman decided to make the film himself. While developing the screenplay with his co-writers Frank Barhydt and Patricia Resnick, Altman would create a board game, complete with token pieces and a full set of rules, to flesh out the storyline.   Altman would once again work with Paul Newman, who stars as a seal hunter in the early days of a new ice age who finds himself in elaborate game with a group of gamblers where losing in the game means losing your life in the process. Altman would deliberately hire an international cast to star alongside Newman, not only to help improve the film’s ability to do well in foreign territories but to not have the storyline tied to any specific country. So we would have Italian actor Vittorio Gassman, Spaniard Fernando Rey, Swedish actress Bibi Andersson, French actress Brigitte Fossey, and Danish actress Nina van Pallandt.    In order to maintain the mystery of the movie, Altman would ask Fox to withhold all pre-release publicity for the film, in order to avoid any conditioning of the audience. Imagine trying to put together a compelling trailer for a movie featuring one of the most beloved actors of all time, but you’re not allowed to show potential audiences what they’re getting themselves into? Altman would let the studio use five shots from the film, totaling about seven seconds, for the trailer, which mostly comprised of slo-mo shots of a pair of dice bouncing around, while the names of the stars pop up from moment to moment and a narrator tries to create some sense of mystery on the soundtrack.   But audiences would not be intrigued by the mystery, and critics would tear the $6.4m budget film apart. To be fair, the shoot for the film, in the winter of 1977 outside Montreal was a tough time for all, and Altman would lose final cut on the film for going severely over-budget during production, although there seems to be very little documentation about how much the final film might have differed from what Altman would have been working on had he been able to complete the film his way.   But despite all the problems with Quintet, Fox would still back Altman’s next movie, A Perfect Couple, which would be shot after Fox pulled Altman off Quintet. Can you imagine that happening today? A director working with the studio that just pulled them off their project. But that’s how little ego Altman had. He just wanted to make movies. Tell stories. This simple romantic comedy starred his regular collaborator Paul Dooley as  Alex, a man who follows a band of traveling bohemian musicians because he’s falling for one of the singers in the band.   Altman kept the film on its $1.9m budget, but the response from critics was mostly concern that Altman had lost his touch. Maybe it was because this was his 13th film of the decade, but there was a serious concern about the director’s ability to tell a story had evaporated.   That worry would continue with his next film, Health.   A satire of the political scene in the United States at the end of the 1970s, Health would follow a health food organization holding a convention at a luxury hotel in St. Petersburg FL. As one would expect from a Robert Altman movie, there’s one hell of a cast. Along with Henry Gibson, and Paul Dooley, who co-write the script with Altman and Frank Barhydt, the cast would include Lauren Bacall, Carol Burnett, James Garner and, in one of her earliest screen appearances, Alfre Woodard, as well as Dick Cavett and Dinah Shore as themselves.   But between the shooting of the film in the late winter and early spring of 1979 and the planned Christmas 1979 release, there was a change of management at Fox. Alan Ladd Jr. was out, and after Altman turned in his final cut, new studio head Norman Levy decided to pull the film off the 1979 release calendar. Altman fought to get the film released sometime during the 1980 Presidential Campaign, and was able to get Levy to give the film a platform release starting in Los Angeles and New York City in March 1980, but that date would get cancelled as well. Levy then suggested an April 1980 test run in St. Louis, which Altman was not happy with. Altman countered with test runs in Boston, Houston, Sacramento and San Francisco. The best Altman, who was in Malta shooting his next movie, could get were sneak previews of the film in those four markets, and the response cards from the audience were so bad, the studio decided to effectively put the film on the proverbial shelf.   Back from the Mediterranean Sea, Altman would get permission to take the film to the Montreal World Film Festival in August, and the Telluride and Venice Film Festivals in September. After good responses from film goers at those festivals, Fox would relent, and give the film a “preview” screening at the United Artists Theatre in Westwood, starting on September 12th, 1980. But the studio would give the film the most boring ad campaign possible, a very crude line drawing of an older woman’s pearl bracelet-covered arm thrusted upward while holding a carrot. With no trailers in circulation at any theatre, and no television commercials on air, it would be little surprise the film didn’t do a whole lot of business. You really had to know the film had been released. But its $14k opening weekend gross wasn’t really all that bad. And it’s second week gross of $10,500 with even less ad support was decent if unspectacular. But it would be good enough to get the film a four week playdate at the UA Westwood.   And then, nothing, until early March 1981, when a film society at Northwestern University in Evanston IL was able to screen a 16mm print for one show, while a theatre in Baltimore was able to show the film one time at the end of March. But then, nothing again for more than another year, when the film would finally get a belated official release at the Film Forum in New York City on April 7th, 1982. It would only play for a week, and as a non-profit, the Film Forum does not report film grosses, so we have no idea how well the film actually did. Since then, the movie showed once on CBS in August 1983, and has occasionally played on the Fox Movie Channel, but has never been released on VHS or DVD or Blu-Ray.   I mentioned a few moments ago that while he was dealing with all this drama concerning Health, Altman was in the Mediterranean filming a movie. I’m not going to go too much into that movie here, since I already have an episode for the future planned for it, suffice to say that a Robert Altman-directed live-action musical version of the Popeye the Sailor Man cartoon featuring songs by the incomparable Harry Nilsson should have been a smash hit, but it wasn’t. It was profitable, to be certain, but not the hit everyone was expecting. We’ll talk about the film in much more detail soon.   After the disappointing results for Popeye, Altman decided to stop working in Hollywood for a while and hit the Broadway stages, to direct a show called Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean. While the show’s run was not very long and the reviews not very good, Altman would fund a movie version himself, thanks in part to the sale of his production company, Lion’s Gate, not to be confused with the current studio called Lionsgate, and would cast Karen Black, Cher and Sandy Dennis alongside newcomers Sudie Bond and Kathy Bates, as five female members of The Disciples of James Dean come together on the 20th anniversary of the actor’s death to honor his life and times. As the first film released by a new independent distributor called Cinecom, I’ll spend more time talking about this movie on our show about that distributor, also coming soon, suffice it to say that Altman was back. Critics were behind the film, and arthouse audiences loved it. This would be the first time Altman adapted a stage play to the screen, and it would set the tone for a number of his works throughout the rest of the decade.   Streamers was Altman’s 17th film in thirteen years, and another adaptation of a stage play. One of several works by noted Broadway playwright David Rabe’s time in the Army during the Vietnam War, the film followed four young soldiers waiting to be shipped to Vietnam who deal with racial tensions and their own intolerances when one soldier reveals he is gay. The film featured Matthew Modine as the Rabe stand-in, and features a rare dramatic role for comedy legend David Alan Grier. Many critics would note how much more intense the film version was compared to the stage version, as Altman’s camera was able to effortlessly breeze around the set, and get up close and personal with the performers in ways that simply cannot happen on the stage. But in 1983, audiences were still not quite ready to deal with the trauma of Vietnam on film, and the film would be fairly ignored by audiences, grossing just $378k.   Which, finally, after half an hour, brings us to our featured movie.   O.C. and Stiggs.   Now, you might be asking yourself why I went into such detail about Robert Altman’s career, most of it during the 1970s. Well, I wanted to establish what types of material Altman would chose for his projects, and just how different O.C. and Stiggs  was from any other project he had made to date.   O.C. and Stiggs began their lives in the July 1981 issue of National Lampoon, as written by two of the editors of the magazine, Ted Mann and Tod Carroll. The characters were fun-loving and occasionally destructive teenage pranksters, and their first appearance in the magazine would prove to be so popular with readers, the pair would appear a few more times until Matty Simmons, the publisher and owner of National Lampoon, gave over the entire October 1982 issue to Mann and Carroll for a story called “The Utterly Monstrous Mind-Roasting Summer of O.C. and Stiggs.” It’s easy to find PDFs of the issues online if you look for it.   So the issue becomes one of the biggest selling issues in the history of National Lampoon, and Matty Simmons has been building the National Lampoon brand name by sponsoring a series of movies, including Animal House, co-written by Lampoon writers Doug Kenney and Chris Miller, and the soon to be released movies Class Reunion, written by Lampoon writer John Hughes… yes, that John Hughes… and Movie Madness, written by five Lampoon writers including Tod Carroll. But for some reason, Simmons was not behind the idea of turning the utterly monstrous mind-roasting adventures of O.C. and Stiggs into a movie. He would, however, allow Mann and Carroll to shop the idea around Hollywood, and wished them the best of luck.   As luck would have it, Mann and Carroll would meet Peter Newman, who had worked as Altman’s production executive on Jimmy Dean, and was looking to set up his first film as a producer. And while Newman might not have had the credits, he had the connections. The first person he would take the script to his Oscar-winning director Mike Nichols, whose credits by this time included Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff?, The Graduate, Catch-22, and Carnal Knowledge. Surprisingly, Nichols was not just interested in making the movie, but really wanted to have Eddie Murphy, who was a breakout star on Saturday Night Live but was still a month away from becoming a movie star when 48 Hours was released, play one of the leading characters. But Murphy couldn’t get out of his SNL commitments, and Nichols had too many other projects, both on Broadway and in movies, to be able to commit to the film.    A few weeks later, Newman and Altman both attended a party where they would catch up after several months. Newman started to tell Altman about this new project he was setting up, and to Newman’s surprise, Altman, drawn to the characters’ anti-establishment outlook, expressed interest in making it. And because Altman’s name still commanded respect in Hollywood, several studios would start to show their interest in making the movie with them. MGM, who was enjoying a number of successes in 1982 thanks to movies like Shoot the Moon, Diner, Victor/Victoria, Rocky III, Poltergeist, Pink Floyd - The Wall, and My Favorite Year, made a preemptive bid on the film, hoping to beat Paramount Pictures to the deal. Unknown to Altman, what interested MGM was that Sylvester Stallone of all people went nuts for the script when he read it, and mentioned to his buddies at the studio that he might be interested in making it himself.   Despite hating studio executives for doing stuff like buying a script he’s attached to  then kicking him off so some Italian Stallion not known for comedy could make it himself, Altman agree to make the movie with MGM once Stallone lost interest, as the studio promised there would be no further notes about the script, that Altman could have final cut on the film, that he could shoot the film in Phoenix without studio interference, and that he could have a budget of $7m.   Since this was a Robert Altman film, the cast would be big and eclectic, filled with a number of his regular cast members, known actors who he had never worked with before, and newcomers who would go on to have success a few years down the road. Because, seriously, outside of a Robert Altman movie, where are you going to find a cast that included Jon Cryer, Jane Curtin, Paul Dooley, Dennis Hopper, Tina Louise, Martin Mull, Cynthia Nixon, Bob Uecker, Melvin van Peebles, and King Sunny Adé and His African Beats? And then imagine that movie also featuring Matthew Broderick, Jim Carrey, Robert Downey, Jr. and Laura Dern?   The story for the film would both follow the stories that appeared in the pages of National Lampoon fairly closely while also making some major changes. In the film, Oliver Cromwell “O.C.” Oglivie and Mark Stiggs are two ne'er-do-well, middle-class Phoenix, Arizona high school students who are disgusted with what they see as an omnipresent culture of vulgar and vapid suburban consumerism. They spend their days slacking off and committing pranks or outright crimes against their sworn enemies, the Schwab family, especially family head Randall Schwab, a wealthy insurance salesman who was responsible for the involuntary commitment of O.C.'s grandfather into a group home. During the film, O.C. and Stiggs will ruin the wedding of Randall Schwab’s daughter Lenore, raft their way down to a Mexican fiesta, ruin a horrible dinner theatre performance directed by their high school’s drama teacher being attended by the Schwabs, and turn the Schwab mansion into a homeless shelter while the family is on vacation. The film ends with O.C. and Stiggs getting into a gun fight with Randall Schwab before being rescued by Dennis Hopper and a helicopter, before discovering one of their adventures that summer has made them very wealthy themselves.   The film would begin production in Phoenix on August 22nd, 1983, with two newcomers, Daniel H. Jenkins and Neill Barry, as the titular stars of the film. And almost immediately, Altman’s chaotic ways of making a movie would become a problem. Altman would make sure the entire cast and crew were all staying at the same hotel in town, across the street from a greyhound racetrack, so Altman could take off to bet on a few of the races during production downtime, and made sure the bar at the hotel was an open bar for his team while they were shooting. When shooting was done every day, the director and his cast would head to a makeshift screening room at the hotel, where they’d watch the previous day’s footage, a process called “dailies” in production parlance. On most films, dailies are only attended by the director and his immediate production crew, but in Phoenix, everyone was encouraged to attend. And according to producer Peter Newman and Dan Jenkins, everyone loved the footage, although both would note that it might have been a combination of the alcohol, the pot, the cocaine and the dehydration caused by shooting all day in the excessive Arizona heat during the middle of summer that helped people enjoy the footage.    But here’s the funny thing about dailies.   Unless a film is being shot in sequence, you’re only seeing small fragments of scenes, often the same actors doing the same things over and over again, before the camera switches places to catch reactions or have other characters continue the scene. Sometimes, they’re long takes of scenes that might be interrupted by an actor flubbing a line or an unexpected camera jitter or some other interruption that requires a restart. But everyone seemed to be having fun, especially when dailies ended and Altman would show one of his other movies like MASH or The Long Goodbye or 3 Women.   After two months of shooting, the film would wrap production, and Altman would get to work on his edit of the film. He would have it done before the end of 1983, and he would turn it in to the studio. Shortly after the new year, there would be a private screening of the film in New York City at the offices of the talent agency William Morris, one of the larger private screening rooms in the city. Altman was there, the New York-based executives at MGM were there, Peter Newman was there, several of the actors were there. And within five minutes of the start of the film, Altman realized what he was watching was not his cut of the film. As he was about to lose his stuff and start yelling at the studio executives, the projector broke. The lights would go up, and Altman would dig into the the executives. “This is your effing cut of the film and not mine!” Altman stormed out of the screening and into the cold New York winter night.   A few weeks later, that same print from New York would be screened for the big executives at the MGM lot in Los Angeles. Newman was there, and, surprisingly, Altman was there too. The film would screen for the entire running length, and Altman would sit there, watching someone else’s version of the footage he had shot, scenes put in different places than they were supposed to be, music cues not of his design or consent.   At the end of the screening, the room was silent. Not one person in the room had laughed once during the entire screening. Newman and Altman left after the screening, and hit one of Altman’s favorite local watering holes. As they said their goodbyes the next morning, Altman apologized to Newman. “I hope I didn’t eff up your movie.”   Maybe the movie wasn’t completely effed up, but MGM certainly neither knew what to do with the film or how to sell it, so it would just sit there, just like Health a few years earlier, on that proverbial shelf.   More than a year later, in an issue of Spin Magazine, a review of the latest album by King Sunny Adé would mention the film he performed in, O.C. and Stiggs, would, quote unquote, “finally” be released into theatres later that year.   That didn’t happen, in large part because after WarGames in the early summer of 1983, almost every MGM release had been  either an outright bomb or an unexpected financial disappointment. The cash flow problem was so bad that the studio effectively had to sell itself to Atlanta cable mogul Ted Turner in order to save itself. Turner didn’t actually want all of MGM. He only wanted the valuable MGM film library, but the owner of MGM at the time was either going to sell it all or nothing at all.   Barely two months after Ted Turner bought MGM, he had sold the famed studio lot in Culver City to Lorimar, a television production company that was looking to become a producer and distributor of motion pictures, and sold rest of the company he never wanted in the first place to the guy he bought it all from, who had a kind of seller’s remorse. But that repurchase would saddle the company with massive bills, and movies like O.C. and Stiggs would have to sit and collect dust while everything was sorted out.   How long would O.C. and Stiggs be left in a void?   It would be so long that Robert Altman would have time to make not one, not two, but three other movies that would all be released before O.C. and Stiggs ever saw the light of day.   The first, Secret Honor, released in 1984, featured the great Philip Baker Hall as former President Richard Nixon. It’s probably Hall’s single best work as an actor, and the film would be amongst the best reviewed films of Altman’s career.   In 1985, Altman would film Fool For Love, an adaptation of a play by Sam Shepard. This would be the only time in Shepard’s film career where he would star as one of the characters himself had written. The film would also prove once and for all that Kim Basinger was more than just a pretty face but a real actor.   And in February 1987, Altman’s film version of Beyond Therapy, a play by absurdist playwright Christopher Durant, would open in theatres. The all-star cast would include Tom Conti, Jeff Goldblum, Christopher Guest, Julie Hagerty and Glenda Jackson.   On March 5th, 1987, an article in Daily Variety would note that the “long shelved” film would have a limited theatrical release in May, despite the fact that Frank Yablans, the vice chairman of MGM, being quoted in the article that the film was unreleasable. It would further be noted that despite the film being available to international distributors for three years, not one company was willing to acquire the film for any market. The plan was to release the movie for one or two weeks in three major US markets, depending on its popularity, and then decide a future course of action from there.   But May would come and go, without a hint of the film.   Finally, on Friday, July 10th, the film would open on 18 screens, but none in any major market like Chicago, Los Angeles or New York City. I can’t find a single theatre the film played in that weekend, but that week’s box office figures would show an abysmal $6,273 worth of tickets were sold during that first weekend.   There would not be a second weekend of reported grosses.   But to MGM’s credit, they didn’t totally give up on the film.   On Thursday, August 27th, O.C. and Stiggs would open in at least one theatre. And, lucky for me, that theatre happened to be the Nickelodeon Theatre in Santa Cruz. But despite the fact that the new Robert Altman was opening in town, I could not get a single friend to see it with me. So on a Tuesday night at 8:40pm, I was the only person in all of the region to watch what I would soon discover was the worst Robert Altman movie of all time. Now, I should note that even a bad Robert Altman movie is better than many filmmakers’ best movies, but O.C. and Stiggs would have ignobility of feeling very much like a Robert Altman movie, with its wandering camera and overlapping dialogue that weaves in and out of conversations while in progress and not quite over yet, yet not feeling anything like a Robert Altman movie at the same time. It didn’t have that magical whimsy-ness that was the hallmark of his movies. The satire didn’t have its normal bite. It had a number of Altman’s regular troop of actors, but in smaller roles than they’d usually occupy, and not giving the performances one would expect of them in an Altman movie.   I don’t know how well the film did at the Nick, suffice it to say the film was gone after a week.   But to MGM’s credit, they still didn’t give up on the film.   On October 9th, the film would open at the AMC Century City 14, one of a handful of movies that would open the newest multiplex in Los Angeles.   MGM did not report grosses, and the film was gone from the new multiplex after a week.   But to MGM’s credit, they still didn’t give up on the film.   The studio would give the film one more chance, opening it at the Film Forum in New York City on March 18th, 1988.   MGM did not report grosses, and the film was gone after a week. But whether that was because MGM didn’t support the film with any kind of newspaper advertising in the largest market in America, or because the movie had been released on home video back in November, remains to be seen.   O.C. and Stiggs would never become anything resembling a cult film. It’s been released on DVD, and if one was programming a Robert Altman retrospect at a local arthouse movie theatre, one could actually book a 35mm print of the film from the repertory cinema company Park Circus.   But don’t feel bad for Altman, as he would return to cinemas with a vengeance in the 1990s, first with the 1990 biographical drama Vincent and Theo, featuring Tim Roth as the tortured genius 19th century painter that would put the actor on the map for good. Then, in 1992, he became a sensation again with his Hollywood satire The Player, featuring Tim Robbins as a murderous studio executive trying to keep the police off his trail while he navigates the pitfalls of the industry. Altman would receive his first Oscar nomination for Best Director since 1975 with The Player, his third overall, a feat he would repeat the following year with Short Cuts, based on a series of short stories by Raymond Carver. In fact, Altman would be nominated for an Academy Award seven times during his career, five times as a director and twice as a producer, although he would never win a competitive Oscar.   In March 2006, while editing his 35th film, a screen adaptation of the then-popular NPR series A Prairie Home Companion, the Academy would bestow an Honorary Oscar upon Altman. During his acceptance speech, Altman would wonder if perhaps the Academy acted prematurely in honoring him in this fashion. He revealed he had received a heart transplant in the mid-1990s, and felt that, even though he had turned 81 the month before, he could continue for another forty years.   Robert Altman would pass away from leukemia on November 20th, 2006, only eight months after receiving the biggest prize of his career.   Robert Altman had a style so unique onto himself, there’s an adjective that exists to describe it. Altmanesque. Displaying traits typical of a film made by Robert Altman, typically highly naturalistic, but with a stylized perspective and often a subversive twist.   He truly was a one of a kind filmmaker, and there will likely never be anyone like him, no matter how hard Paul Thomas Anderson tries.     Thank you for joining us. We’ll talk again in two weeks, when Episode 106, Mad Magazine Presents Up the Academy, is released.   Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about the movies we covered this episode.   The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment.   Thank you again.   Good night.  

The 80s Movie Podcast concludes its Vestron Pictures series with Part Three, covering the company's final releases from 1989 through its bankruptcy filing in 1991. Host Edward Havens traces how a studio that needed one more hit instead got a string of commercial disappointments, including Bob Balaban's cult horror comedy Parents, Bernard Rose's Paperhouse, the Corey Feldman and Corey Haim vehicle Dream a Little Dream, Ken Russell's The Rainbow, and Julien Temple's musical comedy Earth Girls Are Easy, the De Laurentiis pickup starring Geena Davis, Jeff Goldblum, Jim Carrey, and Damon Wayans. Furthermore, the episode examines how the Lightning Pictures imprint's Far From Home, starring a 14-year-old Drew Barrymore, opened on the same day Vestron's bank terminated its $100 million line of credit and effectively ended the company's theatrical operation in a single afternoon. However, the collapse of Vestron's distribution arm is only part of the story. Along the way, Edward traces what happened to the titles left behind when the company folded, including films sold off to other distributors and others that went directly to video without any theatrical release at all. At the same time, the episode follows Vestron's assets through bankruptcy court to Live Entertainment, then to Artisan Entertainment, and finally to Lionsgate, explaining why so many of the films Vestron released remain nearly impossible to find today. Consequently, the Vestron story becomes a case study not just in how independent studios fail, but in how film history gets buried under successive waves of corporate ownership. In addition to the release histories, this episode surfaces several remarkable footnotes. Earth Girls Are Easy gave Jim Carrey and Damon Wayans enough chemistry that Wayans later pushed for Carrey to join In Living Color, a decision that changed the course of American comedy. Wonderland featured an early Hans Zimmer score and an early role for Robbie Coltrane. And Paperhouse launched the career of the director who would go on to make Candyman. For listeners who followed the full Vestron series, this episode delivers a fitting and genuinely surprising conclusion.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues a three-part series on Vestron Pictures, focusing on the company’s rapid expansion in the 1980s home video era. However, success brings new pressure as Vestron moves beyond its early distribution model. As a result, the company begins operating on a larger and more complex scale. The VHS market continues to grow, but competition increases across both theatrical and home video releases. Following the breakout success of Dirty Dancing, Vestron enters a new phase of aggressive growth. In addition, the company expands its release slate and takes on higher financial commitments. This includes a broader mix of theatrical titles and international acquisitions. Meanwhile, expectations rise as the industry looks for another major hit. Because of this, decision-making becomes more risk-sensitive and increasingly complicated. At the same time, Vestron’s 1988 strategy shows both ambition and strain. Some releases struggle to find audiences. Others reflect the pressure to maintain momentum after Dirty Dancing. As a result, the balance between expansion and instability becomes more difficult to manage. Ultimately, this episode explores how rapid success begins to create structural challenges that will shape the company’s future.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens begins a three-part series on Vestron Pictures, a company that helped define the 1980s home video boom. However, its story begins with instability rather than certainty. Vestron entered a rapidly shifting entertainment landscape as video rental stores changed how audiences discovered films. As a result, demand for home video content expanded quickly. The company positioned itself early in this new market. In addition, it built a distribution model based on speed, volume, and risk-taking. Because of that approach, Vestron moved fast, but often without long-term security. This episode covers the beginning of the company’s rise and sets the stage for what follows in the series. As Vestron expanded, it built a recognizable identity in the VHS marketplace. It acquired and distributed a wide range of films, from modest releases to cult titles that gained new life in rental stores. For example, some films found audiences years after theatrical release. Meanwhile, others became steady performers through repeated home viewing. As a result, the Vestron label became a familiar presence on video shelves. It represented discovery for audiences exploring beyond traditional theatrical releases. However, this growth also pushed the company into higher financial stakes and greater industry visibility. That shift becomes most apparent with Dirty Dancing. The film became a major commercial and cultural success, exceeding expectations across box office, soundtrack sales, and home video performance. Because of this success, Vestron’s profile rose significantly in a short period of time. In turn, the company moved from niche distributor to major industry player. Nevertheless, this breakthrough also introduced new pressure and higher expectations. Ultimately, this episode focuses on Vestron’s early rise, the momentum it built, and the turning point that reshaped its future trajectory.  

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits The Marvel Cinematic Universe of the 1980s, an exploration of the early and often chaotic attempts to bring Marvel Comics characters to the big screen long before the modern MCU existed. During the 1980s, studios and independent companies experimented with adapting properties like Spider-Man, Captain America, The Fantastic Four, and Iron Man, but most of these projects stalled in development or collapsed under shifting creative teams, limited budgets, and uncertain studio support. In this episode, Edward examines how companies like Cannon Films repeatedly tried to launch major superhero franchises, cycling through writers, directors, and concepts that often misunderstood the source material or struggled to balance comic book mythology with the era’s filmmaking constraints. He also looks at the long development history behind projects like Spider-Man and Captain America, and how rights issues, financial instability, and changing industry priorities repeatedly reshaped what Marvel adaptations could look like during the decade. Finally, Edward breaks down how Howard the Duck became the first theatrically released Marvel film, why it struggled to find an audience, and how its legacy fits into the broader story of Marvel’s early cinematic experiments. Taken together, these films and failed projects reveal an alternate timeline of superhero cinema that helped set the stage for the eventual rise of the Marvel Cinematic Universe decades later.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens dives into one of the most ambitious and technically daring science fiction films ever made. James Cameron refused to take the easy path. Instead, he pushed filmmaking into uncharted waters with The Abyss. We revisit the remarkable story behind a production that tested its cast, challenged its crew, and redefined what audiences expected from visual effects. Released in 1989, the film combined deep-sea adventure, Cold War suspense, and emotional drama with groundbreaking technology. As a result, it became one of the decade's most ambitious productions. Although its theatrical release divided audiences, its reputation has continued to grow with time. Edward explores how Cameron transformed an impossible idea into a cinematic reality. Along the way, we examine the demanding underwater production and the extraordinary performances from Ed Harris, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, and Michael Biehn. We also look at the practical effects that pushed the limits of filmmaking. Meanwhile, new digital techniques opened the door to a new era of visual storytelling. Those innovations influenced films that followed, including Terminator 2, Jurassic Park, and Cameron's own Titanic and Avatar. The episode also revisits the film's extended cut and explains why many viewers now consider it the definitive version. Today, The Abyss stands as more than an unforgettable science fiction adventure. It represents a turning point in modern filmmaking. We revisit its lasting legacy and explore why it remains one of James Cameron's most personal achievements. Whether you first experienced the film in theaters or discovered it years later, this episode reveals why The Abyss continues to inspire filmmakers and audiences around the world.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits Escape to Victory (1981), the unusual World War II sports drama directed by John Huston and starring Michael Caine, Sylvester Stallone, Max von Sydow, and international football icon Pelé in his only major acting role. Inspired in part by the real-life “Death Match” of World War II, the film blends wartime suspense with underdog sports drama as Allied prisoners of war prepare for a high-stakes soccer match against a Nazi team. In this episode, Edward explores the fascinating production history behind Escape to Victory, from Pelé helping choreograph the film’s soccer sequences to Stallone training as a goalkeeper and enduring multiple on-set injuries. He also looks at director John Huston’s involvement, the film’s international cast of real football stars, and why this unusual mix of war movie and sports film struggled at the American box office despite strong appeal overseas. More than four decades later, Escape to Victory remains a fascinating entry in 1980s cinema, combining wartime drama, sports action, and an unforgettable ensemble cast. Whether you are a fan of Pelé, Sylvester Stallone, Michael Caine, World War II films, or overlooked 1980s cult favorites, this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast revisits a movie that continues to stand apart from nearly anything else released in 1981.    

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits The Jazz Singer (1980), the musical drama starring Neil Diamond in his only leading film role alongside Laurence Olivier and Lucie Arnaz. A remake of the groundbreaking 1927 film, the story follows a young singer struggling to balance family expectations and religious tradition with his ambitions for a career in popular music. Backed by a massively successful soundtrack featuring songs like “Love on the Rocks,” “Hello Again,” and “America,” the film became a commercial success even as critical reactions were sharply divided. In this episode, Edward explores the challenges of adapting The Jazz Singer for a new era, including the decision to reshape the story around Neil Diamond’s musical persona and contemporary pop culture. He also examines Richard Fleischer’s direction, Laurence Olivier’s performance as a demanding father, and the ways the film approaches questions of faith, family obligation, identity, and celebrity. More than forty years later, The Jazz Singer still raises interesting questions about remakes, movie stardom, and how audiences respond when musicians move into leading film roles. Whether you know the movie through Neil Diamond’s music or are discovering it for the first time, this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast revisits a film that remains a notable part of both Diamond’s career and 1980s Hollywood.    

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits The War of the Roses (1989), Danny DeVito’s sharply observed black comedy about a marriage unraveling in spectacular fashion. Reuniting Romancing the Stone stars Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, the film follows Oliver and Barbara Rose, a wealthy couple whose seemingly perfect life collapses into an increasingly vicious battle over their home, possessions, and pride. Based on Warren Adler’s novel and co-starring DeVito as the couple’s divorce lawyer, the film turned domestic conflict into one of the darkest studio comedies of the late 1980s. In this episode, Edward explores why The War of the Roses worked so well as both comedy and satire, examining the chemistry between Douglas and Turner, Danny DeVito’s direction, and the film’s willingness to push conflict into uncomfortable territory. He also looks at how the movie uses material success, resentment, and miscommunication to expose the fragility of relationships, while asking audiences to sit with the uncomfortable reality that neither side comes away looking sympathetic. More than three decades later, The War of the Roses still sparks conversation for its unusually bitter tone, memorable performances, and refusal to offer easy answers about marriage or divorce. Whether you remember it as a dark comedy, a cautionary tale, or simply the final pairing of Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner’s 1980s collaborations, this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast revisits a film that remains surprisingly sharp and unsettling.    

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits Thriller (1982), the landmark short film directed by John Landis and created by Michael Jackson during the height of his crossover into global superstardom. Released in 1983 as part of the Thriller album era, the 14-minute music video blends horror cinema, pop music, and narrative storytelling into a single production that redefined what a music video could be. In this episode, Edward breaks down how Thriller draws from classic horror influences, including werewolf transformation sequences, zombie choreography, and practical effects work that pushed the limits of early 1980s music video production. He also explores the collaboration between Michael Jackson and John Landis, the decision to expand a pop single into a cinematic short film, and the production risks that came with its unusually high budget and scope. Finally, Edward examines how Thriller reshaped the relationship between music and visual media, helping establish MTV-era storytelling and turning a single music video into a cultural event. Whether you first saw it on television, VHS, or annual Halloween rotations, this episode revisits the short film that permanently changed how popular music is presented on screen.

This episode looks at the 1984 debut novel by Bret Easton Ellis, and its 1987 film adaptation. ----more---- Hello, and welcome to The 80s Movies Podcast. I am your host, Edward Havens. Thank you for listening today. On this episode, we’re going to talk about 80s author Bret Easton Ellis and his 1985 novel Less Than Zero, the literal polar opposite of last week’s subjects, Jay McInerney and his 1984 novel Bright Lights, Big City. As I mentioned last week, McInerney was twenty-nine when he published Bright Lights, Big City. What I forgot to mention was that he was born and raised in Hartford, Connecticut, halfway between Boston and New York City, and he would a part of that elite East Coast community that befits the upper class child of a corporate executive. Bret Easton Ellis was born and raised in Los Angeles. His father was a property developer, and his parents would divorce when he was 18. He would attend high school at The Buckley School, a college prep school in nearby Sherman Oaks, whose other famous alumni include a who’s who of modern pop culture history, including Paul Thomas Anderson, Tucker Carlson, Laura Dern, Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, Alyssa Milano, Matthew Perry, and Nicole Richie. So they both grew up fairly well off. And they both would attend tony colleges in New England.  Ellis would attend Bennington College in Vermont, a private liberal arts college whose alumni include fellow writers Jonathan Lethem and Donna Tartt, who would both graduate from Bennington the same year as Ellis, 1986. While still attending The Buckley School, the then sixteen year old Ellis would start writing the book he would call Less Than Zero, after the Elvis Costello song. The story would follow a protagonist not unlike Bret Easton Ellis and his adventures through a high school not unlike Buckley. Unlike the final product, Ellis’s first draft of Less Than Zero wore its heart on its sleeve, and was written in the third person.  Ellis would do a couple of rewrites of the novel during his final years at Buckley and his first years at Bennington, until his creative writing professor, true crime novelist Joe McGinness, suggested to the young writer that he revert his story back to the first person, which Ellis was at first hesitant to do. But once he did start to rewrite the story as a traditional novel, everything seemed to click. Ellis would have his book finished by the end of the year, and McGinniss was so impressed with the final product that he would submit it to his own agent to send out to publishers. Bret Easton Ellis was only a second year student at the time. And because timing is everything in life, Less Than Zero was being submitted to publishers just as Bright Lights, Big City was tearing up the best seller charts, and the publisher Simon and Schuster would purchase the rights to the book for $5,000. When the book was published in June 1985, Ellis just finished his third year at Bennington.  He was only twenty-one years and three months old. Oh… also… before the book was published, the film producer Marvin Worth, whose credits included Bob Fosse’s 1974 doc-drama about Lenny Bruce starring Dustin Hoffman, 1979’s musical drama The Rose, Bette Midler’s breakthrough film as an actress, and the 1983 Dudley Moore comedy Unfaithfully Yours, would purchase the rights to make the novel into a movie, for $7,500. The film would be produced at Twentieth Century-Fox, under the supervision of the studio’s then vice president of production, Scott Rudin. The book would become a success upon its release, with young readers gravitating towards Clay and his aimless, meandering tour of the rich and decadent young adults in Los Angeles circa Christmas 1984, bouncing through parties and conversations and sex and drugs and shopping malls. One of those readers who became obsessed with the book was a then-seventeen year old Los Angeles native who had just returned to the city after three years of high school in Northern California. Me. I read Less Than Zero easily three times that summer, enraptured not only with Ellis’s minimalist prose but with Clay specifically. Although I was neither bisexual nor a user of drugs, Clay was the closest thing I had ever seen to myself in a book before. I had kept in touch with my school friends from junior high while I lived in Santa Cruz, and I found myself to have drifted far away from them during my time away from them. And then when I went back to Santa Cruz shortly after Christmas in 1985, I had a similar feeling of isolation from a number of my friends there, not six months after leaving high school. I also loved how Ellis threw in a number of then-current Los Angeles-specific references, including two mentions of KROQ DJ Richard Blade, who was the coolest guy in radio on the planet. And thanks to Sirius XM and its First Wave channel, I can still listen to Richard Blade almost daily, but now from wherever I might be in the world. But I digress. My bond with Less Than Zero only deepened the next time I read it in early 1986. One of the things I used to do as a young would-be screenwriter living in Los Angeles was to try and write adaptation of novels when I wasn’t going to school, going to movies, or working as a file clerk at a law firm. But one book I couldn’t adapt for the life of me was Less Than Zero. Sure, there was a story there, but its episodic nature made it difficult to create a coherent storyline. Fox felt the same way, so they would hire Michael Cristofer, a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, to do the first draft of the script. Cristofer had just finished writing the adaptation of John Updike’s The Witches of Eastwick that Mad Max director George Miller was about to direct, and he would do a literal adaptation of Ellis’s book, with all the drugs and sex and violence, except for a slight rehabilitation of the lead character’s sexuality. Although it was still the 1980s, with one part of the nation dramatically shifting its perspective on many types of sexuality, it was still Ronald Reagan’s 1980s America, and maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have the lead character be openly bisexual in a major studio motion picture. Cristofer would complete his first draft of the script in just one month, and producer Marvin Worth really loved it. Problem was, the Fox executives hated it. In a November 18th, 1987, New York Times article about the adaptation, Worth would tell writer Allen Harmetz that he thought Cristofer’s script was highly commercial, because “it had something gripping to say about the dilemma of a generation to whom nothing matters.” Which, as someone who had just turned twenty years old eight days after the movie’s release and four days before this article came out, I absolutely disagree with. My generation cared about a great many things. We cared about human rights. We cared about ending apartheid. We cared about ending AIDS and what was happening politically and economically. Yeah, we also cared about puffy jean jackets and neon colored clothes and other non-sensical things to take our minds off all the other junk we were dealing with, but it would be typical of a forty something screenwriter and a fiftysomething producer to thing we didn’t give a damn about anything. But again, I digress. Worth and the studio would agree on one thing. It wasn’t really a drug film, but about young people being destroyed by the privilege of having everything you ever wanted available to you. But the studio would want the movie version of the book to be a bit more sanitized for mainstream consumption. Goodbye, Marvin Worth. Hello, Jon Avnet. In 1986, Jon Avnet was mostly a producer of low-budget films for television, with titles like Between Two Women and Calendar Girl Murders, but he had struck gold in 1983 with a lower-budgeted studio movie with a first-time director and a little known lead actor. That movie was Risky Business, and it made that little known lead actor, Tom Cruise, a bona-fide star. Avnet, wanting to make the move out of television and onto the big screen, would hire Harley Peyton, a former script reader for former Columbia Pictures and MGM/UA head David Begelman, who you might remember from several of our previous episodes, and six-time Oscar nominated producer/screenwriter Ernest Lehman. Peyton would spend weeks in Avnet’s office, pouring over every page of the book, deciding what to keep, what to toss, and what to change. Two of the first things to go were the screening of a “snuff” film on the beach, and a scene where a twelve year old girl is tied to a bedpost and raped by one of the main characters. Julian would still hustle himself out to men for money to buy drugs, but Clay would a committed heterosexual. Casting on the film would see many of Hollywood’s leading younger male actors looked at for Clay, including a twenty-three year old recent transplant from Oklahoma looking not only for his first leading role, but his first speaking role on screen. Brad Pitt. The producers would instead go with twenty-four year old Andrew McCarthy, an amiable-enough actor who had already made a name for himself with such films as St. Elmo’s Fire and Pretty in Pink, and who would have another hit film in Mannequin between being cast as Clay and the start of production. For Blair, they would cast Jami Gertz, who had spent years on the cusp of stardom, between her co-starring role as Muffy Tepperman on the iconic 1982 CBS series Square Pegs, to movies such as Quicksilver and Crossroads that were expected to be bigger than they ended up being. The ace up her sleeve was the upcoming vampire horror/comedy film The Lost Boys, which Warner Brothers was so certain was going to be a huge hit, they would actually move it away from its original Spring 1987 release date to a prime mid-July release. The third point in the triangle, Julian, would see Robert Downey Jr. get cast. Today, it’s hard to understand just how not famous Downey was at the time. He had been featured in movies like Weird Science and Tuff Turf, and spent a year as a Not Ready For Prime Time Player on what most people agree was the single worst season of Saturday Night Live, but his star was starting to rise.  What the producers did not know, and Downey did not elaborate on, was that, like Julian, Downey was falling down a spiral of drug use, which would make his performance more method-like than anyone could have guessed. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, who were hot in the Los Angeles music scene but were still a couple years from the release of their breakout album, 1989’s Mothers Milk, were cast to play a band in one of the party scenes, and additional cast members would include James Spader and Lisanne Falk, who would become semi-famous two years later as one of the Heathers. Impressed with a 1984 British historical drama called Another Country featuring Colin Firth, Cary Elwes and Rupert Everett, Avnet would hire that film’s 35 year old director, Marek Kanievska, to make his American directing debut. But Kanievska would be in for a major culture shock when he learned just how different the American studio system was to the British production system. Shooting on the film was set to begin in Los Angeles on May 6th, 1987, and the film was already scheduled to open in theatres barely six months later. One major element that would help keep the movie moving along was cinematographer Ed Lachman. Lachman had been working as a cinematographer for nearly 15 years, and had shot movies like Jonathan Demme’s Last Embrace, Susan Sideman’s Desperately Seeking Susan, and David Byrne’s True Stories.  Lachman knew how to keep things on track for lower budgeted movies, and at only $8m, Less Than Zero was the second lowest budgeted film for Twentieth Century-Fox for the entire year. Not that having a lower budget was going to stop Kanievska and Lachman from trying make the best film they could. They would stage the film in the garish neon lighting the 80s would be best known for, with cool flairs like lighting a poolside discussion between Clay and Julian where the ripples of the water and the underwater lights create an effect on the characters’ faces that highlight Julian’s literal drowning in his problems. There’s also one very awesome shot where Clay’s convertible, parked in the middle of a street with its top down, as we see Clay and Blair making out while scores of motorcycles loudly pass by them on either side. And there’s a Steadicam shot during the party scene featuring the Chili Peppers which is supposed to be out of this world, but it’s likely we’ll never see it. Once the film was finished shooting and Kanievska turned in his assembly cut, the studio was not happy with the film. It was edgier than they wanted, and they had a problem with the party scene with the Peppers. Specifically, that the band was jumping around on screen, extremely sweaty, without their shirts on. It also didn’t help that Larry Gordon, the President of Fox who had approved the purchase of the book, had been let go before production on the film began, and his replacement, Alan Horn, who did give the final go-ahead on the film, had also been summarily dismissed. His replacement, Leonard Goldberg, really hated the material, thought it was distasteful, but Barry Diller, the chairman of the studio, was still a supporter of the project. During all this infighting, the director, Kanievska, had been released from the film.  Before any test screenings. Test screenings had really become a part of the studio modus operandi in the 1980s, and Fox would often hold their test screenings on the Fox Studio Lot in Century City. There are several screenings rooms on the Fox lot, from the 53 seat William Fox Theatre, to the 476 seat Darryl Zanuck Theatre. Most of the Less Than Zero test screenings would be held in the 120 seat Little Theatre, so that audience reactions would be easier to gauge, and should they want to keep some of the audience over for a post-screening Q&A, it would be easier to recruit eight or ten audience members. That first test screening did not go over well. Even though the screening room was filled with young people between the ages of 15 and 24, and many of them were recruited from nearby malls like the Century City Mall and the Beverly Center based off a stated liking of Andrew McCarthy, they really didn’t like Jami Hertz’s character, and they really hated Robert Downey Jr’s. Several of the harder scenes of drug use with their characters would be toned down, either through judicious editing, or new scenes were shot, such as when Blair is seen dumping her cocaine into a bathroom sink, which was filmed without a director by the cinematographer, Ed Lachman. They’d also shoot a flashback scene to the trio’s high school graduation, meant to show them in happier times. The film would be completed three weeks before its November 6th release date, and Fox would book the film into 871 theatres., going up against no less than seven other new movies, including a Shelley Long comedy, Hello Again, the fourth entry in the Death Wish series, yet another Jon Cryer high school movie, Hiding Out, a weird Patrick Swayze sci-fi movie called Steel Dawn, a relatively tame fantasy romance film from Alan Rudolph called Made in Heaven, and a movie called Ruskies which starred a very young Joaquin Phoenix when he was still known as Leaf Phoenix, while also contending with movies like Fatal Attraction, Baby Boom and Dirty Dancing, which were all still doing very well two to four months in theatres. The reviews for the film were mostly bad. If there was any saving grace critically, it would be the praise heaped upon Downey for his raw performance as a drug addict, but of course, no one knew he actually was a drug addict at that time. The film would open in fourth place with $3.01m in ticket sales, less than half of what Fatal Attraction grossed that weekend, in its eighth week of release. And the following weeks’ drops would be swift and merciless. Down 36% in its second week, another 41% in its third, and had one of the worst drops in its fourth week, the four day Thanksgiving holiday weekend, when many movies were up in ticket sales. By early December, the film was mostly playing in dollar houses, and by the first of the year, Fox had already stopped tracking it, with slightly less than $12.4m in tickets sold. As of the writing of this episode, at the end of November 2022, you cannot find Less Than Zero streaming anywhere, although if you do want to see it online, it’s not that hard to find. But it has been available for streaming in the past on sites like Amazon Prime and The Roku Channel, so hopefully it will find its way back to streaming in the future. Or you can find a copy of the 21 year old DVD on Amazon. Thank you for listening. We’ll talk again real soon, when our final episode of 2022, Episode 96, on Michael Jackson’s Thriller, is released. Remember to visit this episode’s page on our website, The80sMoviePodcast.com, for extra materials about Less Than Zero the movie and the novel, and its author, Bret Easton Ellis. The 80s Movies Podcast has been researched, written, narrated and edited by Edward Havens for Idiosyncratic Entertainment. Thank you again. Good night.

This week on The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits Bright Lights, Big City (1988), director James Bridges’ adaptation of Jay McInerney’s bestselling novel about grief, addiction, and ambition in late 1980s Manhattan. While audiences largely knew Michael J. Fox for the optimism and charm of Back to the Future and Family Ties, this film gave him the opportunity to take on far darker material as Jamie Conway, a young magazine fact-checker struggling to navigate personal loss, professional pressure, and the temptations of New York nightlife. Along the way, the film also features performances from Kiefer Sutherland, Phoebe Cates, Dianne Wiest, and Jason Robards, all helping to bring McInerney’s portrait of excess and isolation to the screen. In this episode, Edward explores not only how Bright Lights, Big City adapted McInerney’s influential novel, but also why translating its distinctive second-person narration proved so difficult for filmmakers. At the same time, he examines Michael J. Fox’s decision to move against audience expectations, James Bridges’ approach to capturing Manhattan’s late-night culture, and the film’s exploration of grief, loneliness, and self-destruction beneath the surface of professional success. Although Bright Lights, Big City received mixed reactions upon release, conversations around the film have shifted over time, particularly as viewers reassess Michael J. Fox’s dramatic performance and the movie’s depiction of 1980s excess. Whether you remember it from its original theatrical run or are discovering it for the first time, this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast takes a closer look at a film that reflects both the ambition and emotional dislocation of its era.   ----more---- The original 1984 front cover for Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City   The original 1984 front cover for Raymond Carver's Cathedral   One of the lobby cards from the movie version of Bright Lights, Big City   One of the checklists of Vintage Contemporary books listed in the back of a Vintage Contemporary book.   The full cover, back and front, of Richard Ford's 1986 The Sportswriter, which would be the first of four novels about Frank Bascombe, a failed novelist who becomes a sportswriter. The second book in the series, 1995's Independence Day, would win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, as well as the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction, the first of only two times the same book would win both awards the same year.    

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens revisits Round Midnight (1986), Bertrand Tavernier's acclaimed drama about music, friendship, and redemption. The film stars jazz legend Dexter Gordon as an aging saxophonist living in Paris. However, declining health and alcoholism threaten both his career and his future. The story follows an unexpected friendship that offers hope during his darkest days. Along the way, we explore how Tavernier drew inspiration from the lives of jazz greats Lester Young and Bud Powell. In addition, we examine Gordon's remarkable performance and the contributions of Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, and other legendary musicians. The film captures the spirit of jazz through live performances and authentic storytelling. As a result, it stands apart from traditional Hollywood music dramas. At the same time, we discuss why Round Midnight remains one of the essential jazz films ever made. Furthermore, we look at its critical acclaim, Academy Award recognition, and lasting influence on music-focused cinema. Whether you love jazz or simply appreciate great filmmaking, this episode revisits a moving and often overlooked masterpiece from the 1980s.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens continues the Produced and Abandoned series with Positive I.D. (1987), a neo-noir thriller that briefly caught Hollywood's attention before disappearing from theaters. The film follows Julie Kenner, a woman who survives a brutal assault and reinvents herself after her attacker leaves prison. However, her search for justice soon turns into a dangerous quest for revenge. Along the way, we explore how writer-director Andy Anderson financed the project independently and generated strong festival buzz. Universal Pictures acquired the film and positioned it as a potential breakout hit. In addition, we examine Stephanie Rascoe Myers' performance and the film's blend of psychological drama, noir influences, and revenge thriller elements. The story focuses on identity, trauma, and the consequences of taking control through deception. At the same time, we look at how Positive I.D. became another Produced and Abandoned story. Despite studio support and positive attention, Universal gave the film a limited release and quickly moved on when audiences failed to appear. Furthermore, we discuss why the film deserves a second look from fans of forgotten thrillers and independent cinema. Whether you enjoy neo-noir mysteries or stories about movies that slipped through the cracks, this episode revisits a fascinating film that Hollywood produced, promoted, and then largely abandoned.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens welcomes Jeff Townsend for a unique discussion about the A Nightmare on Elm Street series. Together, they explore the franchise from two different generational perspectives. Edward experienced Freddy Krueger's rise in real time during the 1980s. Jeff discovered the films years later as part of a different horror landscape. Along the way, they compare how Gen X and Millennial audiences connect with the series. In addition, they discuss the evolution of Freddy Krueger from terrifying dream stalker to pop culture icon. The conversation examines key entries across the franchise and how changing audience expectations shaped reactions to each sequel. The result offers a fresh look at one of horror's most influential franchises. At the same time, they consider why A Nightmare on Elm Street continues to attract new fans decades after its debut. Furthermore, they explore how nostalgia, home video, streaming, and horror fandom have changed the way audiences experience the series. Whether you grew up fearing Freddy or discovered him years later, this episode revisits a horror phenomenon that continues to bridge generations.

In this episode of The 80s Movie Podcast, host Edward Havens begins a two-part exploration of the A Nightmare on Elm Street series. Before Freddy Krueger became a pop culture icon, Wes Craven created one of horror's most original villains. We trace the origins of the franchise, examine Craven's early career, and explore how a low-budget independent production transformed the horror genre. Along the way, we follow the series from the original A Nightmare on Elm Street through its sequels, spin-offs, and reinventions. In addition, we discuss the creative decisions that shaped Freddy's evolution from terrifying dream stalker to one of the most recognizable characters in horror history. The episode explores the filmmakers, performers, and studio executives who helped turn a single movie into a long-running franchise. At the same time, we examine how the series influenced horror throughout the 1980s and beyond. Furthermore, we look at the legacy of Wes Craven, Robert Englund, Heather Langenkamp, and the films that helped establish New Line Cinema as a major force in Hollywood. Whether you're a lifelong Freddy fan or discovering the series for the first time, this episode revisits one of the most important horror franchises ever created.