Directed by John Hughes. Starring Judd Nelson, Molly Ringwald, Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheehy, Anthony Michael Hall, Paul Gleason. Running Time: 97 minutes.
Confining extended sequences of films to a single room or setting has produced many memorable pieces of cinema. Hughes embraces this type of minimalism fully with The Breakfast Club; a mere 13 actors are credited in total. The resulting focus is not used for the same thrillseeking ends as, say, Phonebooth, but the technique serves the film undoubtedly well.
Hughes allows the majority of his story to unfold in the large classroom in which the film’s young protagonists are confined for a Saturday of detention. John Bender (Nelson), a prickly, weed-smoking anarchist, quickly becomes the focal point for the group’s interactions, as the lack of stimulation in their surroundings forces them to get to know each other. What unfolds is an intriguing examination of five typical, yet starkly different youths. Andrew (Estevez) is the conservative jock, Clare (Ringwald) the spoilt princess, Allison (Sheehy) the taciturn oddball and Brian (Hall) the socially awkward high achiever. Stereotypical the roles may be, but each character has a magnetic believability. Possibly this film’s greatest triumph is that its main players are as relevant today as they were three decades ago.
Some realism may be sacrificed in favour of engaging dialogue; it is slightly difficult to believe that five teenagers, having just met, would engage each other with the level of emotional candour on display here. Nonetheless, it works spectacularly.
Relations are edgy at first; John’s irreverence sets him up as something of an outcast, and Allison barely features for much of the film’s opening half. When formed, however, the group dynamic is sublime; often funny and profoundly thought-provoking on a few occasions. The politics of young adulthood are illustrated unflinchingly, and the challenges they pose for young people are handled with arresting sincerity. Paul Gleason’s despotic principal, involved on an intermittent basis, is the primary source of their unity; whatever contempt they may hold for each other’s character flaws is overshadowed by their mutual disdain for authority.
Although John is given the role of loquacious philosopher to an extent, it is Andrew who tells us: “We’re all bizarre; some of us are just better at hiding it.” This expression of acceptance is fundamental to the film’s warm intentions. The iconic Don’t You Forget About Me by Simple Minds is the icing on the cake.