1979’s Roller Boogie opens with an impromptu parade of roller skaters rolling across the Venice Beach boardwalk. They don’t care about any stuffy people who think that they should be in school or working behind a counter. They’re young, they’re free! One of them wears rainbow suspenders and juggles while skating. (I’ve noticed that every roller skating movie seems to feature at least one juggler in rainbow suspenders. Strangely, you never see them in real life.)
This is followed by a scene of a teenage rich girl Terry Barkley (Linda Blair) getting ready for her day in her poster decorated bedroom. The camera zooms in for a close-up as she picks just the right chunky bracelet to wear.
In other words, it doesn’t get much more late 70s/early 80s than Roller Boogie.
The plot is pretty simple. Terry meets the king of the roller skaters, Bobby James (Jim Bray). Bobby is a kid from a working class background and he dreams of the day that his roller skating skills will lead to him competing in the Olympics. Terry is rich and she has a snooty best friend (Kimberly Beck) and parents (Beverly Garland and Roger Perry) who are planning on sending her to Julliard. Despite everyone saying that they’re from different worlds, Terry and Bobby enter the roller disco contest together! Cue the montage!
Unfortunately, a crooked businessman (Mark Goddard) is planning on bulldozing the skating rink. Can Bobby and the other skaters defeat the businessman and his gangster pals? Even when guns are pulled on them, Bobby and his friends refuse to give up. Myself, I’d just find another skating rink. I mean, it’s Venice Beach in 1979. It’s hard to believe that there’s only one place to go.
The gangster subplot feels out of place, a misguided attempt to bring some action to a perfectly acceptable teen romance. This was Jim Bray’s only film role and he wasn’t a particularly good actor but he and Linda Blair had enough natural chemistry to bring some charm to the film. Linda Blair, for her part, skates as if the fate of the world depended upon it and she seems to enjoy playing a relatively happy character for once. It’s totally predictable, a bit dumb at times but it’s still likable enough. Ultimately, it’s such a product of its time — look at the clothes, look at the hair, listen to the slang — that it becomes rather fascinating to watch. This is a movie that you watch and say, “So, that’s what 1979 was like!”
The Hidden is a guilty pleasure from 1987, a sci-fi action romp that barrels into B-movie territory with zero brakes and maximum glee. It’s the kind of flick you stash away for those late-night binges when no one’s judging.
Right from the explosive opener, a squeaky-clean bank clerk named Jack DeVries flips the script. He storms a Wells Fargo branch like a one-man apocalypse, gunning down guards and peeling out in a stolen Ferrari for a high-octane chase that leaves LAPD scrambling. Cops riddle him with bullets in a spectacular crash, but as he flatlines in the hospital, out slithers a pulsating alien parasite—a glowing, tentacled slug that prizes luxury cars, blaring rock anthems, and indiscriminate slaughter above all else.
It wastes no time hopping into fresh meat, turning an arms dealer into a walking arsenal, then a sultry stripper who turns deadly seduction into a bloodbath. Cue Detective Tom Beck, Michael Nouri’s world-weary LAPD vet with divorce papers and a pint-sized daughter sharpening his edges. He teams up with the enigmatic FBI agent Lloyd Gallagher, Kyle MacLachlan dialing up the eerie charm like he’s fresh off Blue Velvet. Gallagher’s no standard G-man—he skips the coffee, eyes suspects like prey, and knows way too much about this interstellar joykiller. Beck’s gut screams “weirdo,” but with bodies piling up, he’s along for the parasitic ride. Their mismatched partnership becomes the beating heart of this wild chase.
Diving deeper into why The Hidden earns its guilty pleasure crown, it’s all about that unapologetic mash-up of genres. Think Lethal Weapon‘s buddy-cop fireworks fused with The Thing‘s body-horror paranoia, wrapped in a low-budget package that punches way above its weight.
The alien doesn’t just possess—it corrupts with cartoonish vice. It blasts Metallica’s Master of Puppets while mowing down traffic, guzzles ice cream cones mid-rampage, and even puppeteers a German Shepherd into a jogger-shredding beast. Hosts shrug off shotgun blasts, car wrecks, and point-blank headshots, laughing through the pain like invincible demons. This cranks the tension during chases from neon-lit strip joints to posh art auctions gone haywire.
Picture Brenda Lee, played with fierce allure by Claudia Christian, grinding on a mark before ventilating him and trading bullets with highway patrol—it’s equal parts sexy, scary, and stupid fun. Then there’s the mannequin factory showdown, a claustrophobic bullet ballet with plastic dummies exploding in slow-mo glory. Director Jack Sholder, hot off A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2, keeps the pedal floored across 98 taut minutes. He blends practical effects that ooze tangible grossness—no lazy CGI, just squelching tentacles and slime trails that still unsettle on modern screens. The creature’s big reveal, bursting from a gut in a hospital bed? Pure visceral nightmare fuel that lingers like bad takeout.
But let’s talk about the real magic: Nouri and MacLachlan’s chemistry, which transforms potential cheese into something oddly heartfelt. Beck is the everyman anchor—tough exterior hiding a soft spot for his ex and kid. She clocks Gallagher’s off vibes immediately, hiding behind Dad during their first meet-cute awkwardness. Gallagher’s the alien hunter in human skin, pursuing his nemesis from the galaxy’s edge to Earth. MacLachlan nails the wide-eyed alien tourist act: fumbling forks at pizza joints, blanking on human etiquette, yet unleashing a phaser-like zapper with cold precision.
Their dialogue zings with natural friction—Beck barking “What the hell are you?” while Gallagher parries with vague cosmic lore. It builds to warehouse confessions amid flying lead. It’s 48 Hrs. with extraterrestrials, punctuated by hilarious side beats: Beck’s partner Cliff Willis (Ed O’Ross) biting the dust early, precinct captain Ed Malvane (Clarence Felder) getting briefly slimed into a foul-mouthed tyrant, even a senator’s rally turning into invasion bait. The supporting roster shines without stealing thunder—Christian’s tragic dancer, Richard Brooks’ scumbag john. They all flesh out LA’s underbelly as the perfect playground for alien anarchy.
Layer on the sly socio-satire, and The Hidden reveals sneaky smarts beneath the schlock. This parasite’s a yuppie id unleashed, embodying Reagan-era ’80s gluttony: crashing Porsches, bankrolling hooker sprees, amassing arsenals. All while plotting to hijack presidential hopeful Senator Holt for an Oval Office coup that’d summon its mothership armada. It’s a gleeful middle finger to excess, with the slug reveling in what humans suppress—pure hedonistic rampage from Malibu beaches to political podiums. Sholder doesn’t belabor the point; he lets the absurdity sell it. Like the arms dealer’s arsenal haul or the dog’s park massacre underscoring unchecked impulses.
Sound design throbs with synth-wave synths and guitar riffs that propel every stunt. Michael Convertino’s score swells dramatically for emotional beats. Dialogue veers from pulpy gold (“Pain? What’s that?”) to poignant, especially Gallagher schooling Beck on alien resilience versus human spirit.
Flaws? Sure—the third act rushes to a flamethrower climax and bittersweet farewell. Some effects betray the budget in brighter scenes, and plot holes gape if you squint (how’d the slug learn English so fast?). Yet it owns every imperfection, turning cheese into charm.
Ultimately, The Hidden endures as peak cult guilty pleasure, outshining flashier ’80s peers by blending brains, brawn, and balls-to-the-wall entertainment. It foreshadows Men in Black‘s fish-out-of-water agents and Venom‘s symbiote chaos. All while delivering practical FX wizardry that CGI eras envy. Nouri’s magnetic lead turn should’ve rocketed him higher; MacLachlan’s proto-Lynchian quirkiness fits like a glove. Stream it on whatever dusty platform hosts it, or snag a VHS for authenticity—pair with beer and zero expectations for two hours of adrenaline-spiked joy.
The finale’s sacrificial gut-punch lands because you’ve bonded with these oddballs, capped by Beck’s wry nod to humanity’s messy soul. It’s dumb when it wants, deep when it surprises, always a rush. Slug-slinging sci-fi doesn’t get guiltier or greater. Dive in, emerge grinning, no regrets.
The Delta Force is the ultimate guilty pleasure from the ’80s, that rocket-bike-riding, Chuck Norris-kicking fantasy you pop on when you need two hours of unapologetic, brain-off escapism. It’s a hijacking thriller crossed with Cannon Films overkill, blending real Middle East tensions with pure action movie wish fulfillment, and yeah, it’s politically charged and dated as hell, but damn if it doesn’t deliver the kind of dumb-fun thrills that make you grin despite yourself.
Right from the jump, the film sets up its hook with a failed Delta Force raid in Iran, nodding to the real-life Eagle Claw disaster that still stung in 1986. Fast-forward, and Lee Marvin’s grizzled Colonel Nick Alexander gets yanked out of retirement when Lebanese militants hijack an Athens-to-New York flight, forcing it to Beirut and beyond. Enter Chuck Norris as Major Scott McCoy, the brooding ex-operator haunted by that botched op, who’s all too ready to strap on his gear when innocents are on the line. The setup drags you through passenger terror and terrorist demands, then explodes into rescue mayhem—it’s like the movie knows you’re here for the payback, and it serves it up hot.
As a plot, it’s pure popcorn simplicity: plane gets taken, hostages split by nationality and faith, planes hopscotch across terror hotspots, and Delta swoops in for the save. Drawing from the TWA 847 ordeal, the onboard stuff feels eerily real at first—sweaty close-ups of scared folks like Shelley Winters’ kvetching grandma or Martin Balsam’s anxious exec, turning the cabin into a pressure cooker. George Kennedy’s priest adds heart, and you almost buy the drama until Norris’ dirt bike starts spitting missiles, flipping the script to glorious absurdity. That’s the guilty pleasure pivot: from newsreel grit to arcade-game heroics, and you can’t help but love the whiplash.
Once the action ramps, The Delta Force leans into its B-movie soul with reckless abandon. McCoy’s team hits beaches, raids compounds, and yeah, that motorcycle sequence where Norris zips through baddies like a one-man apocalypse? Iconic cheese that screams “turn off your brain and enjoy.” It’s less about realism and more about catharsis—after watching hostages suffer, the third act’s bullet ballet feels like the justice porn we all secretly crave in these flicks. No deep strategy, just explosions and one-liners, perfectly tuned for that “hell yeah” rush that keeps you glued.
The cast is a riot of guilty-pleasure gold. Marvin, in his last role, growls through command with that unbeatable world-weary vibe, making every order land like gravitas wrapped in grit. Norris? Stone-faced perfection—says little, does everything, his quiet rage bubbling just enough to humanize the roundhouse legend. The passenger ensemble shines in panic mode: Winters chews scenery, Balsam frets convincingly, Kennedy prays with soul. Villain Robert Forster? Over-the-top terrorist glee, accent thick as plot armor, stealing scenes with gleeful menace that’s so cartoonish, it’s addictive.
Sure, the politics are a time-stamped minefield—terrorists as flat-out monsters, Middle East as villain playground, America as lone savior—but that’s part of the era’s guilty thrill. In a post-9/11 world, the stereotypes jar, yet for ’80s nostalgia buffs, it’s that raw, unfiltered patriotism dialed to eleven, the kind you laugh at now but cheered then. The film doesn’t pretend to balance views; it picks a lane—righteous rage—and floors it, making the righteousness feel perversely fun amid the preachiness.
Technically, it’s rough-around-the-edges charm personified. Menahem Golan directs with propulsive energy, keeping the 126 minutes zipping between dread and dazzle. Action’s shot clean—no shaky cam nonsense—with wide lenses capturing chaos in practical, pre-CGI glory that pops on a big screen. The score? Brass-blasting heroism that’s comically epic, sticking like glue and amping every slow-mo strut. Sets fake Beirut convincingly enough, backlots be damned, all fueling that immersive, low-budget magic.
The Delta Force thrives on its split personality: tense hijack bottle episode crashing into commando wet dream. Plane scenes build real unease, echoing headlines, but then rocket bikes and cheering crowds yank it back to fantasy ad. That clash? Pure guilty pleasure fuel—serious enough to hook you, silly enough to forgive its flaws, never letting tension sag.
Bottom line, embrace The Delta Force as peak time-capsule junk: terrorism tamed by ‘stache and firepower, geopolitics as blockbuster bait. Norris and Cannon diehards will fist-pump through every raid; casual viewers get a hoot from the excess. It’s flawed, fervent, and fantastically rewatchable— the kind of flick where you know it’s ridiculous, but two hours later, you’re humming the theme and plotting your next viewing. Guilty pleasure? Abso-freaking-lutely, and wear that shame badge proud.
Revenge of the Nerds captures the wild, unfiltered spirit of 1980s college comedies, blending underdog triumph with over-the-top raunchiness that feels both nostalgic and awkwardly dated today. Released in 1984, this Jeff Melman-directed flick stars Robert Carradine and Anthony Edwards as Lewis and Gilbert, two freshmen nerds who face relentless bullying from the jock-dominated Alpha Beta fraternity at Adams College. What starts as a straightforward tale of misfits fighting back evolves into a chaotic mix of pranks, parties, and questionable morals, making it a polarizing watch that still packs a punch for fans of the era’s humor.
The story kicks off with Lewis and Gilbert arriving full of optimism, only to have their dreams torched—literally—when the Alpha Betas accidentally burn down their dorm during a hazing gone wrong. Relocated to a rundown gym with other campus outcasts, the nerds band together under the banner of Tri-Lam, turning their rejection into fuel for clever retaliation. From panty raids to talent show showdowns, the film barrels through a series of escalating antics, peaking at the Greek Games where brains battle brawn in absurd competitions like tricycle races and tug-of-war twists. It’s pure 80s escapism, with a runtime under 100 minutes that keeps the energy high and the laughs coming in rapid-fire succession, even if not every gag is a home run.
The nerd ensemble steals the show, each character a walking stereotype brought to vivid life. Carradine’s Lewis is the slick-talking instigator with a knack for schemes, while Edwards’ Gilbert provides the earnest heart, delivering a pivotal speech about acceptance that gives the movie unexpected emotional depth. Curtis Armstrong as Booger delivers unforgettable gross-out moments, from belching symphonies to shameless flirtations, and Larry B. Scott’s Lamar brings flamboyant athletic flair that subverts expectations. The jocks, led by Ted McGinley’s smug Stan, serve as perfect foils—arrogant, muscle-bound villains who embody the era’s macho excess. Supporting turns, like Julia Montgomery’s Betty navigating boyfriend drama, John Goodman’s boorish Coach Harris, or Bernie Casey’s wise U.N. Jefferson, add layers to the campus power struggle.
Humor-wise, Revenge of the Nerds leans hard into juvenile territory: fart jokes, streaking, and wild panty raid sequences filmed with hidden cameras that push boundaries even for the time. The film’s climax involves Lewis impersonating Stan to woo Betty, a plot point that plays as triumphant revenge but lands as deeply problematic through today’s lens, highlighting consent issues amid the cheers. Similarly, the sorority spying and casual objectification reflect 80s attitudes toward women and minorities that feel crass now, contributing to its mixed modern reception. Yet, these elements are balanced by genuine camaraderie among the nerds, fostering a sense of belonging that resonates as a counter to real-world bullying.
Technically, the movie holds up as a product of its time. The soundtrack, featuring the iconic title track by The Rubinoos and funky cues during party scenes, amps up the fun, while practical effects like the nerds’ gadget-filled house add quirky charm. Cinematography emphasizes the divide between polished frat row and the nerds’ scrappy turf, with wide shots of campus chaos underscoring the rebellion. Written by Tim Metcalfe, Steve Zacharias, and Jeff Buhai, the script zings with quotable lines—”We are the sons of the sons of bitches”—and smartly flips the slobs-vs-snobs formula by rooting for the geeks.
Culturally, Revenge of the Nerds helped define the “nerd pride” archetype, paving the way for films like PCU and influencing pop culture’s embrace of geek culture from The Big Bang Theory to Marvel dominance. It spawned three sequels, a musical adaptation, and endless references, cementing its place as a time capsule of Reagan-era college life—rowdy, rebellious, and unapologetically politically incorrect. For balance, its strengths lie in infectious energy, memorable characters, and a pro-outsider message, but weaknesses include uneven pacing in setup scenes and humor that too often punches down rather than up.
The film continues the trend of 80s raunchy teen comedies first popularized by Bob Clark’s Porky’s, ramping up the gross-out gags and frat-house antics while shifting the focus to nerd empowerment over sexual hijinks. The nerds’ talent show finale, uniting misfits in a joyous medley, delivers pure catharsis, proving brains and heart can topple bullies. It’s not flawless—some jokes bomb, and the ending rushes a bit—but its scrappy spirit endures for those who grew up quoting Booger’s lines or cheering Tri-Lam’s win. Fans of Animal House or Old School will find familiar thrills, while modern audiences might prefer the cleaner satire of The Good Place. Ultimately, Revenge of the Nerds earns a solid recommendation with caveats: a rowdy good time if you roll with the 80s vibe, but skip if consent gags are deal-breakers.
Porky’s is one of those movies that plays very differently depending on when you first see it. On the surface, it is a loud, lewd early‑’80s teen sex comedy about a bunch of high‑school boys in 1950s Florida trying to get laid and get even, but underneath the pranks and bare flesh there are streaks of surprisingly serious material about prejudice, masculinity, and power. That mix of dopey laughs and darker undercurrents is exactly what makes the film interesting to talk about, and also what makes it so divisive today.
Set in the 1950s and released in 1981, Porky’s follows a tight‑knit group of teenage boys whose main goals in life are sex, sports, and practical jokes. Their adventures eventually take them to Porky’s, a sleazy backwater strip club run by the hulking, corrupt Porky, who humiliates them and sets up the revenge plot that drives the back half of the film. Around that spine, the story wanders through locker‑room banter, elaborate pranks, and various attempts to sneak into the girls’ showers or otherwise spy on naked bodies. It is very much a “horny boys on the prowl” narrative, and the film never pretends to be anything else.
What keeps it from being just another disposable sex comedy is the way some of those side stories hit harder than expected. One of the kids is brutally abused by his father, and the film doesn’t treat it like a throwaway detail; those scenes have a rawness and anger that clash with the goofy tone elsewhere. There is also a thread about anti‑Semitism and racism in their community, with one character confronting his own bigoted upbringing as he befriends a Jewish classmate and pushes back against the prejudice around him. That material is handled in a pretty straightforward, earnest way, which is jarring given how crude the surrounding humor can be, but it does show that writer‑director Bob Clark had more on his mind than dirty jokes.
The humor, for better or worse, is what most people remember. Porky’s leans heavily on slapstick and sex‑obsessed gag setups: peeping through holes in shower walls, mistaken identities during sex, ridiculous anatomical bragging, prank phone calls, and elaborate schemes that escalate into full‑on chaos. Some of the set pieces are staged with real comic timing, and if you’re on its wavelength, these sequences can still land as big, cathartic laughs. Others feel juvenile in the worst way, stretching one joke way past its breaking point, or punching down at easy targets rather than punching up at the hypocritical adults the boys are constantly butting up against.
Viewed from today’s lens, a big chunk of that humor is undeniably uncomfortable. The movie is saturated with sexist, homophobic, and racist language, and a few of the “pranks” involving the girls are essentially sexual harassment played for laughs. At the time, it was sold as a gleefully politically incorrect romp; now, those same scenes read as mean‑spirited or creepy in a way that undercuts the supposed lighthearted tone. The film occasionally tries to complicate this by giving some of the female characters sharper edges or letting them turn the tables, but it never fully escapes the fact that the camera is mostly aligned with the boys and their fantasies.
That said, Porky’s is not entirely dismissive of its women. There are moments where adult women, in particular, are allowed to call out the boys’ behavior or assert their own sexuality in ways that undercut the usual “conquest” narrative. The movie also makes a point of ridiculing hypocritical authority figures—teachers, coaches, cops, and parents—whose prudish public morals don’t match their private behavior. When Porky’s is skewering bigotry, religious hypocrisy, and small‑town moral panics, it feels sharper and more progressive than its reputation as a dumb “tits‑and‑ass” comedy suggests. Those flashes of insight are part of why some viewers argue that, beneath the sleaze, the film is quietly critical of the very attitudes it seems to indulge.
Performance‑wise, the cast is made up largely of unknowns who sell the illusion that this is a real, scrappy group of friends rather than polished Hollywood teens. The camaraderie feels genuine; their constant ribbing, in‑jokes, and shifting alliances are believable enough that you can see why the movie became a touchstone for a certain generation of viewers. Bob Clark’s direction is surprisingly controlled for such an anarchic script. He keeps the story moving, balances multiple subplots, and stages the bigger comic payoffs in a way that feels almost like a live‑action cartoon. The downside is that this slickness can make the nastier gags pop more, for better and worse.
On a technical level, Porky’s is very much a product of its time, but not a cheap one. The period detail—cars, music, clothing, diners, and dingy roadside bars—helps sell the 1950s setting, giving the film a nostalgic sheen that softens some of its rougher edges. The soundtrack leans on era‑appropriate rock and roll, which adds energy to the locker‑room and party scenes. The film also doesn’t shy away from male nudity, which was less common in comedies of the time and adds to its reputation as equal‑opportunity when it comes to what it exposes, even if the gaze is still clearly tilted toward ogling women.
Where Porky’s can stumble is in tone. The shifts between broad farce and serious drama can be abrupt. One minute you are watching a drawn‑out gag about a teacher trying to identify a student by his anatomy; the next, you are plunged into a grim confrontation with an abusive parent. That whiplash can pull you out of the movie, because the emotional weight of the dramatic scenes doesn’t always get enough breathing room before the script lurches back to naughty antics. As a result, some viewers feel the darker elements trivialize real issues, while others think those same scenes give the film more substance than its imitators.
Even if someone has never seen Porky’s, they have probably felt its influence. The film was a massive box‑office hit relative to its budget and paved the way for a wave of raunchy teen comedies through the ’80s and ’90s, eventually echoing into movies like American Pie and beyond. Its success made it clear that there was a huge audience for R‑rated, adolescent sex comedies that mixed crude jokes with a veneer of coming‑of‑age sentiment. You can see its blueprint in later films: packs of horny friends, elaborate revenge schemes, school authority figures as comic foils, and a big, raucous set piece as the payoff.
Whether Porky’s “holds up” is going to depend a lot on your tolerance for outdated attitudes and offensive language. If you go in expecting a cozy nostalgia trip, you may be surprised by how sour some jokes taste now, and how casually the film treats behavior that would be framed very differently in a modern story. If you approach it as both a time capsule and the prototype of a genre, it becomes easier to see its strengths—the lively ensemble, the willingness to poke at racism and hypocrisy, the low‑budget ingenuity in its set pieces—alongside its very real flaws.
Porky’s is neither the hidden gem some defenders make it out to be nor the irredeemable trash its harshest critics describe. It is a messy, uneven, often funny, often cringeworthy movie that captures a particular moment in pop culture, both in what it laughs at and what it takes for granted. If you are curious about the roots of modern raunchy teen comedies and prepared for the rough, politically incorrect ride, it is still worth a look as a piece of film history and as an example of how comedy ages—for better and for worse.
Walter Hill’s Brewster’s Millions (1985) isn’t a perfect movie by any stretch, but it’s the kind of film that sneaks up on you. It may not be sharp enough to qualify as great satire or consistent enough to hit every comedic note, but it has an undeniable charm that pulls you in regardless. It’s loud, uneven, and often ridiculous, yet few comedies from the 1980s are as weirdly entertaining when they’re firing on all cylinders. For many movie fans, it’s that quintessential “guilty pleasure”—a film you know has problems, but that somehow feels impossible to turn off once it starts. And in many ways, that’s exactly where Brewster’s Millions finds its lasting appeal.
The setup alone is too fun to resist. Richard Pryor stars as Montgomery Brewster, a minor league baseball pitcher who unexpectedly inherits the opportunity of a lifetime—to claim a $300 million fortune from a distant relative. The catch? Before he can get it, he has to spend $30 million in 30 days under a bizarre set of conditions that make financial ruin easier said than done. He can’t give the money away, can’t destroy it, can’t buy assets or investments that retain value, and can’t tell anyone why he’s doing it. Fail, and he gets nothing. Succeed, and he becomes one of the richest men alive. It’s the sort of gleefully absurd premise that could only have come from Hollywood in the 1980s, and it’s immediately clear that the film wants audiences to sit back, grab some popcorn, and watch Pryor tear through cash in increasingly funny and desperate ways.
Richard Pryor is, without doubt, the heart and soul of the movie. He imbues Montgomery Brewster with equal parts manic energy and human frustration, giving the character a real emotional arc beneath all the comic spectacle. Pryor’s talent for blending humor with exasperation makes Brewster’s predicament believable, even when it’s insane. Watching him scramble to lose money while the world keeps rewarding him is strangely satisfying. Pryor understood how to play ordinary men caught in extraordinary circumstances, and that quality grounds the film when it could have easily spiraled into total silliness. In scenes where he loses his patience with accountants, schemes wild spending sprees, or watches his good intentions backfire, Pryor’s comic timing keeps the chaos enjoyable.
John Candy adds another layer of charm as Brewster’s best friend and teammate, Spike Nolan. Candy brings warmth, loyalty, and that unmistakable good-heartedness that made him one of the decade’s most beloved comedic actors. The chemistry between Pryor and Candy keeps the film buoyant even through its weaker stretches. Their friendship defines the film’s tone—it’s loose, goofy, and full of bro-ish camaraderie. Without Candy’s infectious energy, the movie’s more hollow comedic beats might have hit the floor with a thud. Together, they create a dynamic that feels real, even inside a premise that’s totally absurd.
As a director, Walter Hill feels like an odd fit for this kind of broad comedy, but that’s part of what makes Brewster’s Millions interesting. Hill, better known for tough, kinetic action films like The Warriors and 48 Hrs., approaches this farce with a surprising amount of structure and visual precision. The film looks slicker and sharper than most comedies of its kind, which gives the excess on-screen an unintentionally epic flair. Hill’s direction keeps the story moving, and though he’s not naturally a comedic filmmaker, his grounded style adds a peculiar edge to all the craziness. It’s chaos with discipline—an aesthetic that somehow works in the movie’s favor.
Still, Brewster’s Millions can’t quite escape its shortcomings. The pacing is uneven, especially in the middle, where the film loses some steam as Brewster cycles through increasingly repetitive spending gimmicks. The story flirts with satire but rarely commits, brushing up against deeper commentary on wealth, politics, and capitalism before retreating to the comfort of broad comedy. The “Vote None of the Above” subplot, where Brewster’s money-wasting political campaign taps into voter cynicism, is one of the smartest parts of the film—but it’s introduced and resolved too quickly to leave a mark. And while the movie is full of lively energy, not every gag lands; a few supporting performances veer into caricature, and some jokes feel very much of their time.
Yet these flaws are partly what make Brewster’s Millions such a delightful guilty pleasure. It’s the cinematic equivalent of junk food—high on calories, low on nutritional value, but deeply enjoyable all the same. Pryor’s constant exasperation, the sheer absurdity of trying to “waste” money legally, and the exaggerated set pieces (like the overblown parties or his failed attempts to lose at gambling) make for irresistible entertainment. Even when the humor dips into predictable territory, the concept keeps pulling you back in. There’s a giddy satisfaction in watching Brewster try—and fail—to lose money, especially because the universe just won’t let him.
The romance subplot with Lonette McKee’s character, Angela Drake, adds just enough heart to balance the absurdity. McKee gives a grounded, intelligent performance that prevents the love story from feeling tacked on, even if it never fully takes center stage. Her presence keeps Brewster tethered to some kind of reality, and the moral through-line—learning that not everything valuable can be bought—lands gently rather than preachily. It’s not profound, but it fits the breezy tone perfectly.
As a comedy of excess, Brewster’s Millions is very much a product of its time. The slick suits, the gaudy parties, the blind faith in wealth, and the Reagan-era optimism about money’s moral neutrality all ooze from every frame. That time-capsule quality is part of its modern appeal. Watching it today, you can’t help but smile at how on-the-nose it feels—a movie from the “greed is good” decade that accidentally ends up mocking the very mindset it sprang from. It’s self-aware only in flashes, but those flashes are enough to make you recognize the movie’s satirical edge hiding beneath its loud surface.
In the end, that’s what makes Brewster’s Millions endure as a lovable guilty pleasure. It has flaws you can’t ignore—uneven pacing, scattershot tone, underdeveloped ideas—but none of them outweigh its charm. Pryor’s comic genius makes even the weakest joke land better than it should. Candy’s warmth keeps the film light. And Hill’s straightforward direction infuses the lunacy with just enough realism to make it believable. The result is a movie that’s too silly to take seriously but too fun to dismiss. You watch it, laugh at its audacity, shake your head at the logic gaps, and yet somehow come away smiling.
Brewster’s Millions may not be a comedy classic, but it’s easy to see why people keep revisiting it. It’s comfort food cinema—lighthearted, clumsy, and endlessly watchable. And like all the best guilty pleasures, it doesn’t need to be perfect to make you happy. Sometimes, seeing Richard Pryor outsmart the meaning of money for two hours is more than enough.
Ryuhei Kitamura’s 2012 horror film No One Lives is a gritty, brutal revenge slasher that doesn’t aim for subtlety or depth but delivers a fast-paced, high-gore thrill ride. The story follows a couple traveling cross-country who are kidnapped by a ruthless gang, only for the man to reveal himself as a deadly predator on a violent rampage. Luke Evans, playing the mysterious and merciless Driver, leads the film with a performance that blends cold calculation and terrifying violence, keeping viewers glued to the screen.
What makes No One Lives stand out is how it leans heavily into its grindhouse and exploitation roots, which proves both advantageous and limiting. The film fully embraces the hallmarks of grindhouse cinema—fast pacing, gritty visuals, excessive gore, and an amoral story stripped down to revenge-fueled violence. This raw, unapologetic approach results in an intense, no-holds-barred experience that will satisfy fans of exploitation and grindhouse styles. The practical effects are impressively executed, with creative and shocking kills that maintain impact without descending into the ridiculous. This dedication to grindhouse aesthetics gives the film a charged energy and a cult appeal, making it a pulpy, heart-pounding experience for viewers who appreciate that sleazy, nihilistic flavor.
However, the grindhouse influence also shapes the film’s limitations. The focus on spectacle and shock means character development and thematic depth take a back seat, making the story feel thin and the characters largely unrelatable except as violent archetypes. Dialogue at times drifts toward camp, and some acting choices can feel a bit amateurish, which may pull some viewers out of the otherwise tense atmosphere. The film’s relentless brutality and amoral tone also create a polarizing effect; it’s unapologetically harsh and violent, which fits the exploitation tradition, but it’s not for everyone. Those expecting traditional horror with complex narratives might find the experience shallow and exhausting.
Luke Evans’s Driver is a compelling anti-hero/monster hybrid, a character who dominates the film with his cold efficiency and unpredictable savagery. The other characters—mostly the gang members—serve as fodder for the film’s violent set pieces, with minimal background or sympathy. This suits the film’s grindhouse style, where depth is often sacrificed for thrills and shock value. The script cleverly keeps some mystery around Driver, maintaining suspense about his origins and intentions, which helps to sustain interest amid the unrelenting carnage.
The film’s grindhouse and exploitation roots also explain its tone and style: it revels in zaniness and excess, the gore is gratuitous but skillfully done, and the revenges feel morally ambiguous and raw. The film doesn’t try to justify or soften its violence; it embraces the lawlessness and nihilism typical of exploitation cinema. While this results in a tight, entertaining 86-minute rush of thrills, it also means the film lacks subtlety or emotional resonance. The style is both a badge of authenticity for genre fans and a barrier to wider appeal.
No One Lives offers a high-energy, blood-soaked horror experience that fully embraces its grindhouse and exploitation influences. It is crafted with a strong focus on unapologetic violence, tight pacing, and a captivating anti-hero in Luke Evans’s Driver. This stylized approach gives the film its raw, relentless intensity that fans of exploitation cinema will appreciate. However, this allegiance to grindhouse aesthetics also means the film prioritizes style and spectacle over emotional depth and narrative complexity. While the movie is an engaging and brutal thrill ride for those who enjoy extreme horror, its minimal character development and abrasive tone might feel one-dimensional or grating for viewers seeking more meaningful storytelling. Overall, it succeeds as a wild, gritty exploitation flick but doesn’t aim to be more than that, making it ideal for audiences who like their horror unrefined and full throttle.
Ice Station Zebra, directed by John Sturges in 1968, slides into guilty pleasure territory like a submarine slipping under polar ice—full of big Cold War ambitions, shadowy spy games, and submarine peril that tease something epic, but so loaded with pacing hiccups, studio shortcuts, and earnest overreach that it ends up a lopsided, lovably messy ride. Sturges had already cemented his rep with crowd-roaring hits like The Magnificent Seven, where a ragtag posse of gunslingers delivered razor-sharp tension and quotable showdowns, or The Great Escape, a WWII breakout yarn crackling with clever schemes, sweaty escapes, and Steve McQueen’s motorcycle glory. Those films moved like a well-oiled engine, every scene stacking stakes and character beats into unforgettable momentum. By contrast, Ice Station Zebra feels like Sturges chasing that same high-wire ensemble vibe—a U.S. nuclear sub, the USS Tigerfish, barreling toward a trashed Arctic outpost—but bloating into a 148-minute sprawl that swaps tight plotting for endless red-lit corridor glares and withheld mission secrets. It’s not in the same league as his earlier triumphs, lacking their propulsive drive and lived-in grit, yet that very shortfall turns it into quirky comfort viewing for fans who dig flawed ’60s spectacle.
The setup hooks you quick: Commander James Ferraday, Rock Hudson’s square-jawed everyman at the helm, gets tapped for a hush-hush run to Ice Station Zebra after a satellite supposedly carrying spy photos crashes nearby. No full briefing for him, just orders to play it cool while three mystery passengers board—Mr. Jones, a buttoned-up British agent with evasive smirks; Boris Vaslov, Ernest Borgnine’s barrel-chested Russian turncoat oozing fake bonhomie; and Captain Anders, Jim Brown’s steely Marine barking orders over a squad of jarheads. As the Tigerfish dives under thickening ice floes, the sub’s innards come alive with flickering sonar pings, steam-hissing valves, and crewmen hunched over gauges in perpetual sweat. It’s claustrophobic gold at first, the hull creaking like it’s got a bad case of frostbite, echoing the trapped dread Sturges nailed in his POW camp classic but without the same spark of rebellion. Then sabotage strikes—a flooded missile bay, a wild plunge toward crush depth—and fingers start pointing. Who tampered with the ballast? Jones with his locked trunk of gadgets? Vaslov’s too-friendly vodka toasts? The Marines itching for a fight? The scene builds real sweat, divers suiting up in the nick of time, but Sturges lets the fallout drag, turning interrogation into a tea party of suspicions rather than the cutthroat blame game his best films thrived on.
These early stumbles set the tone for a film that’s promising yet perpetually off-kilter, far from the seamless revenge rhythm of The Magnificent Seven‘s dusty trails. Production fingerprints show everywhere: rumors swirl of Navy brass forcing script tweaks to glorify their boats, last-minute casting shifts from bigger names to Hudson, and a roadshow rollout with overture, intermission, and 70mm pomp that screams overambition. The Arctic plunge delivers tense highlights—the sub ramming upward through ice chunks like a whale breaching, sparks flying from shorted panels, crew barking damage reports—but lulls follow with tech jargon dumps and characters circling motives without committing to conflict. Hudson anchors it all with unflappable poise, barking commands like a TV dad in a crisis, but he lacks McQueen’s sly charisma or Yul Brynner’s brooding fire. Borgnine hams it up as Vaslov, his accent flipping from gravelly growl to vaudeville schtick during mess-hall ribbing, while McGoohan brings the sharpest edge as Jones, his dry barbs hinting at deeper layers. Brown’s Anders gets muscle but little nuance, leading a Marine crew that feels like stock tough guys waiting for their cue.
Pushing topside, the flaws bloom into full charm. The ice cap arrival unfolds in sweeping widescreen vistas—endless white expanses, howling gales whipping snow devils—but close-quarters betray the soundstage: actors plodding through “blizzards” in lightweight jackets, no puffing breath in the deep freeze, sets that wobble if you squint. It’s the kind of earnest cheesiness that sinks modern blockbusters but endears this relic, especially when the station siege erupts. Soviets drop from the sky in parachutes like deadly snowflakes, scouring the charred ruins for a buried film capsule packed with NATO missile coords. Americans fan out in white camo, trading potshots amid smoke grenades and collapsing tunnels, loyalties cracking as Vaslov’s true colors flash. Ferraday’s cool bluff seals a three-way stalemate, denying everyone the prize in a nod to mutually assured secrets. Michel Legrand’s score surges here, horns blaring over the chaos like a war drum, giving Sturges’ action chops a late workout. Yet even this payoff sprawls, talky standoffs eating screen time where his peak films would’ve sprinted to the finish.
What seals Ice Station Zebra‘s guilty pleasure status is embracing its dated quirks as features, not bugs—hammy all-male bravado, Cold War jitters turned quaint, plot gaps you could park a destroyer in. Sturges conjures submerged panic and frosty fireworks that nod to his glory days, the sub’s practical effects holding up better than some CGI today, but without the narrative steel of The Great Escape‘s tunnel triumphs or The Magnificent Seven‘s mythic standoffs, it coasts on atmosphere over precision. Clocking 148 minutes, it tests patience with filler like extended sail sequences and coy reveals, yet rewards surrender: grin at Borgnine’s bear hugs masking menace, chuckle at the Navy polish glossing gritty potential, savor the sheer balls of staging Arctic Armageddon on a backlot. Howard Hughes reportedly looped it endlessly in his casino screening rooms, and you get why—it’s hypnotic in its wonkiness, a time capsule of late-’60s Hollywood flexing before New Wave grit crashed the party.
Pop this on a stormy night with cocoa and zero expectations, and Ice Station Zebra shines as cozy flawed fun. Sturges’ touch keeps the chills coming amid the clunkers, delivering submarine squeezes, betrayals under the aurora, and a finale with enough brinkmanship bang to forgive the bloat. It’s no peer to his earlier masterpieces, more a quirky footnote, but that’s the hook: imperfect promise wrapped in icy spectacle, begging a rewatch to spot every goofy grace note. For ’60s thriller buffs, submarine nuts, or anyone needing a break from slick reboots, it’s a frosty, flawed feast worth the dive.
Highschool of the Dead is that wild, over-the-top anime that combines your typical zombie apocalypse survival story with a heavy dose of ecchi fanservice and ridiculous fun. The 12-episode series bursts onto the scene with a gang of Japanese high school students trying to stay alive during a sudden zombie outbreak. The show doesn’t waste time explaining how the zombies came to be — it just tosses you straight into the chaos, and honestly, that’s part of the charm.
The main crew is pretty memorable: Takashi Komuro, the guy reluctantly trying to keep everyone alive while having a crush on Rei Miyamoto; Saeko Busujima, the super cool and mysteriously dark girl who quickly became a fan favorite (and cosplay icon); Saya Takagi, the sharp-witted brainiac; Kohta Hirano, a gun-loving otaku; Shizuka Marikawa, the very adult yet hilariously ditzy school nurse; and little Arisu Marikawa with her adorable, zombie-alert puppy Zeke. This group quickly becomes your ragtag team of survivalists… and eye candy.
Now, let’s get to the heart of Highschool of the Dead — the fanservice. This show is basically a non-stop fanservice marathon, from cheeky panty shots to impossibly large breasts bouncing with wild abandon. If you’re looking for subtlety, sorry, this isn’t the show for you. But if you want ridiculous, unapologetic ecchi mixed with zombie carnage, this anime has got you covered. That infamous “Matrix Boobs” scene? Pure hypnotic, absurd fun and the perfect example of what this anime loves to deliver. These moments are so exaggerated, it’s like the anime knows exactly how nuts it is and just leans into it with a big grin.
Beyond the boobs and butt shots, Highschool of the Dead actually throws in some interesting commentary on human nature in disaster. Sure, zombies are the monsters outside, but the real danger might be the surviving humans themselves, who reveal all kinds of ugly, selfish, and sometimes heroic traits. The teenagers actually fare better than most adults who either panic or take advantage of the chaos — except for the right-wing extremist who surprisingly keeps order with a strict but effective approach. It’s crazy but adds a layer of unexpected depth beneath all the fanservice.
The characters aren’t just there for eye candy either. Komuro isn’t your overly confident anime hero but comes across as a likable, grounded guy. Saeko’s combination of calm, deadly skill and mysterious backstory makes her stand out. Kohta’s military geek side provides a lot of the show’s practical survival know-how, and the occasional comic relief too. The mix of serious struggle and ridiculous fanservice moments makes for a weirdly balanced rollercoaster of tone that keeps you hooked.
Visually, the anime shines with clean, high-quality animation by Madhouse that does a great job blending traditional and CGI elements. You get detailed zombie action and clear, pretty character designs that maximize those fanservice shots. It’s not just about the fanservice — the blood, gore, and zombie fights have their own gritty appeal that balances the show’s lighter, sexier moments. The animation style definitely knows what it’s doing: keep things stylish and eye-catching whether it’s a brutal attack or a cheeky panty shot.
The series also leans into some grindhouse and exploitation vibes, with episode titles like Spring of the Dead and All Deads Attack feeling like throwbacks to 1970s B-movie horror flicks. It’s this blend of horror, action, and exploitation that gives the show its unique flavor. And even though it’s mostly fanservice pandering, it manages to keep a pretty good pace and doesn’t get boring, zipping through the story with lots of action and humor. That “Matrix Boob Physics” meme that went viral years back
While the manga that inspired the series goes deeper and cuts back on fanservice in later chapters, the anime stays firmly in the realm of ridiculous fun with its mix of horror and ecchi. It’s not high art or groundbreaking storytelling, and it would never be mistaken for such. Instead, Highschool of the Dead proudly wears its “guilty pleasure” badge, knowing full well it’s an unapologetically silly, over-the-top romp that doesn’t shy away from the fact that it’s made to entertain and tease rather than inspire or provoke deep thought.
For those who enjoy a wild ride packed with boobs, bullets, and brain-munching zombies, Highschool of the Dead is a perfect guilty pleasure that embraces its identity. It’s a weird mashup that knows it’s silly and really loves having a good time with its audience.
Highschool of the Dead is a wild, ecchi-fueled zombie apocalypse romp that’s totally ridiculous in all the best ways. The show rides the line between horror and parody, serving up enough fanservice moments to satisfy anyone who loves their anime with a side of absurdity and cleavage. Not for everyone, but if you like your zombie stories with a lot of bounce and a wink, this one’s definitely worth a look.
1989’s The ‘Burbs takes place in …. well, it’s right there in the title.
Welcome to the suburbs! It’s place with big houses, green lawns, and neighbors who often don’t have much to do other than watch each other and gossip. Ray Peterson (Tom Hanks) lives with his wife, Carol (Carrie Fisher), and is friends with Art Weingartner (Rick Ducommun) and Mark Rumsfield (Bruce Dern). Ricky Butler (Corey Feldman) is the local teenager. It’s a nice neighborhood …. at least, until the Klopeks move in.
The Klopeks are viewed with suspicion from the minute they show up. They’re from a different country, they always seem to be burying something in their backyard, and Dr. Werner Klopek (Henry Gibson) is oddly stand-offish. When Walter Seznick (Gale Gordon) disappears and the the Klopeks are seen around Walter’s house and with Walter’s dog, Ray and his friends start to suspect that their new neighbors might be ritualistic murderers!
Oh, how I love The ‘Burbs. The film’s portrait of the suburbs as being a hotbed of paranoia may be a familiar one but it doesn’t matter when you’ve got actors like Tom Hanks and Bruce Dern throwing themselves into their roles. As always, Hanks is the glue that holds the film and its disparate parts together, giving a likable performance as a man who goes from being the voice of reason to being convinced that his neighbors are cannibals. Bruce Dern gleefully sends up his own image as a paranoid Vietnam vet but there’s also a sweetness to Dern’s performance that really makes it stand out. Dern’s character might be a little crazy but he does truly care about his neighbors.
Just as he did with Piranha and The Howling, Dante balances humor with suspense. He does such a good job of telling the story and getting good performances from his cast, that even the film’s big twist works far better than one might expect. It’s an 80s film so, of course, a few things explode towards the end of it. The film’s character-based humor is replaced with some broader jokes but no matter. The Burbs is an entertaining trip to the heart of suburban paranoia.
As the saying goes, just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean that they aren’t out to get you.
Through the Shattered Lens 