Do you like long, slow musical numbers that involve almost nothing but looking at showgirls’ legs? No? Well, tough shit, because you’re in for a LOT of them. Get comfy.
A scene I’m 100% sure took place in Irving Thalberg’s office at MGM one day in 1935:
“So, last year Gable took his shirt off in It Happened One Night, and we made… how much money again?”
“All of it, sir. All the money.”
“Oh yeah. That was great. We also won enough Oscars that I had to have my mantelpiece reinforced. Anyway, having said that, what’ve we got this year?”
“We’ve got a picture where Clark Gable is shirtless for literally half the running time.”
“Good start. What’s he wearing the rest of the time?”
Twenty years ago, in the summer of ’96, teenaged me saw a new movie called Independence Day. It’s been a wedge between me and most of my generation ever since. Most people seem to remember it fondly, for some reason. I just remember how it kept getting my hopes up with genuinely exciting, interesting, original scenes, and then letting me down with the stupidest possible followthrough. The visually incredible destruction of Los Angeles ends by pissing on all physical logic just to spare the hero’s girlfriend, her cute kid, and their cute dog.