Guilty Pleasure No. 94: Revenge of the Nerds (dir. by Jeff Kanew)

Posted on December 18, 2025 by Arleigh

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.

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Guilty Pleasure No. 92: Brewster’s Millions (dir. by Walter Hill)

Posted on December 12, 2025 by Arleigh

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.

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Review: Saving Private Ryan (dir. by Steven Spielberg)

Posted on November 11, 2025 by Arleigh

“Someday we might look back on this and decide that Saving Private Ryan was the one decent thing we were able to pull out of this whole godawful, shitty mess.” — Sergeant Horvath

Saving Private Ryan stands as a landmark achievement in war cinema, intricately weaving immersive battle scenes, rich character dynamics, and profound moral themes into a nearly three-hour exploration of World War II’s human cost. One of its most remarkable features is the opening Omaha Beach landing sequence, a meticulously crafted, over 24-minute depiction of warfare’s brutal reality. Spielberg deploys a cinema verité style with handheld cameras capturing disorientation and chaos through the soldiers’ eyes. The sound design envelops the viewer in a sensory onslaught—gunfire, shouting, explosions—creating a visceral experience that immerses audiences directly in the terror and confusion of D-Day.

The filming process drew heavily on historical accuracy, with the production shot on the coast of County Wexford, Ireland, employing amputee actors and practical effects over computer graphics to simulate violent injuries and battlefield horrors. Muted tones evoke wartime photographs, and rapid, shaky editing conveys the disorganized, frantic environment soldiers endured. Consulting WWII veterans and historians, Spielberg created a sequence that reshaped cinematic portrayals of war, influencing how future films would approach the genre’s raw immediacy and emotional weight.

The film’s narrative follows a squad led by Captain Miller on a mission to locate and bring home Private James Ryan, whose three brothers have been killed in combat. The mission is steeped in the real-life tragedy of the five Sullivan brothers who died together aboard the USS Juneau in the Pacific, prompting military policies to prevent similar familial devastation. This historical context frames the story’s ethical heart: risking several men’s lives to save one, raising enduring questions about the value of individual sacrifice within the broader war.

In Saving Private Ryan, sacrifice is portrayed ambiguously—not as the sacrifice of a single hero but as the collective cost borne by the men tasked with rescuing one individual under perilous conditions. As the squad journeys through the war-torn French countryside, the deaths, injuries, and tensions they face underscore war’s randomness and the difficulty of weighing one life against many. The narrative refuses to romanticize or simplify, instead confronting the audience with the tragic truth that countless soldiers lose their lives without recognition or purpose, while some survive against staggering odds.

Duty and camaraderie thread throughout the film, portrayed through the soldiers’ evolving relationships and personal struggles. Each grapples with loyalty not only to their mission but to their fellow men and their own moral codes.

Integral to the film’s power is Tom Hanks’s layered performance as Captain John Miller. Hanks breathes life and emotional depth into Miller, portraying him as a man shaped by civilian life—revealed poignantly when he discloses his pre-war profession as a schoolteacher—now transformed by the relentless demands of war. He embodies an officer who is both composed and vulnerable, carrying the heavy burden of leadership with quiet dignity. Hanks’s portrayal reveals the internal struggles beneath Miller’s stoic exterior: moments of doubt, moral conflict, and fatigue subtly expressed through a trembling hand or a weary gaze. This humanity makes Miller relatable, as a man trying to maintain order and purpose amid chaos.

Hanks skillfully balances Miller’s authoritative presence with warmth and empathy, particularly evident in his paternal interactions with younger soldiers, reinforcing Miller’s role as both a leader and protector. His nuanced acting delivers the complexity of a man constantly negotiating duty and compassion. In scenes of high tension or moral quandaries, Hanks conveys the weight of command while allowing glimpses into Miller’s psychological strain, deepening the film’s emotional resonance.

Following Hanks’s Miller, a standout amongst the supporting cast is Tom Sizemore’s portrayal of Technical Sergeant Mike Horvath, Miller’s steady second-in-command. Sizemore embodies the pragmatic, battle-hardened soldier whose loyalty and experience provide emotional grounding for the squad. Sizemore portrays Horvath’s weariness and quiet commitment, adding layers of realism that deepen the exploration of how war reshapes individuals. The chemistry and shared history between Miller and Horvath are palpable, illustrating the bonds that sustain soldiers through hardship and lending emotional weight to the narrative.

The film wrestles with intense moral ambiguity throughout. The mission’s premise—to risk many lives to save one—compels both characters and viewers to confront complex questions about justice, value, and the cost of war. Scenes presenting difficult choices, such as the decision to spare or execute prisoners, dramatize these ethical dilemmas and highlight the emotional burdens borne by soldiers.

Technically, the film excels, with Janusz Kaminski’s dynamic cinematography capturing both the chaos of battle and intimate moments with evocative clarity. The immersive sound design reinforces the brutal reality, stripping warfare of glamor and confronting audiences with its daunting human costs.

Despite the overwhelming destruction and loss, Saving Private Ryan offers moments of humanity and hope. The rescue mission serves as a fragile symbol of compassion in the midst of devastation, while the film’s closing reflections on memory and legacy emphasize the lasting significance of sacrifice and survival.

Saving Private Ryan stands as a monumental achievement in the war genre, combining visceral combat realism, compelling characters, and moral complexity. Through Hanks’s deeply human Captain Miller and the nuanced supporting performances, especially Sizemore’s grounded Horvath, the film explores themes of sacrifice, duty, and brotherhood with unflinching honesty. Its enduring legacy lies in its unvarnished yet empathetic portrayal of war’s cost and the profound sacrifices made by those who lived it.

The Couch Trip (1988, directed by Michael Ritchie)

Posted on July 16, 2025 by Jedadiah Leland

When renowned radio psychiatrist George Matlin (Charles Grodin) has a nervous breakdown, he takes a trip to Europe with his wife (Mary Gross) to both recover and also work on his marriage. (Matlin’s breakdown was the result of an extramarital affair.) Needing someone to host Dr. Matlin’s radio show, his producers call Dr. Lawrence Baird (David Clennon), who oversees a mental facility in Chicago. They assume that Dr. Baird is just dumb enough that they won’t have to worry about him overshadowing Dr. Matlin while he’s guest-hosting. However, when they call, Dr. Baird is out of his office and the phone is answered by John Burns (Dan Aykroyd), a con artist who has been pretending to be insane so that he can avoid serving time in prison. Pretending to be Baird, Burns accepts their offer and then escapes from the asylum and heads to Beverly Hills. The real Dr. Baird, not knowing about the offer, goes on vacation in Europe. Though Burns had originally only been planning on doing the radio job long enough to get paid enough money to head to Mexico, he soon becomes a celebrity with his non-nonsense, blunt advice.

There’s a lot of talented people in The Couch Trip, including Walter Matthau as a former priest-turned-kleptomaniac and Aykryod’s wife, Donna Dixon, as Matlin’s colleague and Burns’s eventual love interest. Director Michael Ritchie was responsible for some of the best films of the 70s and radio psychiatry is certainly a ripe subject for satire. Why, then does, The Couch Trip fall flat? Some of it is because the movie never seems to know if it wants to be wacky farce or a dramedy about a criminal who finds a new life helping people. The other big problem is that the talented Dan Aykroyd is miscast as the type of unapologetic smartass that Bill Murray could play in his sleep. (In a version where Murray played John Burns, Aykroyd would have been perfect casting as George Matlin.)

Aykroyd was one of the most talented members of the original Not Ready For Prime Time Players. (His impersonations of Nixon and Jimmy Carter were second-to-none.) Sadly, Hollywood has never figured out what to do with his off-center talent. The Couch Trip is a prime example of that.

Hot Shots! Part Deux (1993, directed by Jim Abrahams)

Posted on January 24, 2025 by Jedadiah Leland

Topper Harley (Charlie Sheen) is back but instead of being a knock-off of Tom Cruise, he’s now Sylvester Stallone.

When two separate teams of U.S. soldiers fail to rescue a group of hostages who are being held by Saddam Hussein (Jerry Haleva, who built an entire career out of his resemblance to the Iraqi dictator), it not only embarrasses America but threatens the reelection campaign of President Tug Benson (Lloyd Bridges). President Benson can get away with throwing up on the Japanese ambassador and knocking over all the other Presidents with a shovel (though Gerald Ford falls on his own) but he can’t survive a hostage crisis. Colonel Denton Waters (Richard Crenna) and Michelle Huddleston (Brenda Bakke) attempt to recruit Topper Harley from the Buddhist monastery, where he’s been living since the disappearance of Ramada (Valeria Golino). Topper refuses to help with a third mission but, after Water is captured by Saddam, Topper does decide to lead the fourth mission. Working with Ryan Stiles and Miguel Ferrer, Topper heads into the jungle to save Colonel Waters, reunite with Ramada, and discover his destiny.

The sequel to Hot Shots! is more of the same, a non-stop cavalcade of jokes, movie references, and deadpan one liners. There are enough laugh out loud moments to make up for the jokes that don’t work. I’ll always like the moment when Charlie Sheen sees Martin Sheen on another patrol boat. (“Loved you in Wall Street!”) It’s a movie made in the vein of Airplane! but the jokes aren’t as timeless as in that classic. Everyone remembers Rambo enough to get the main joke and the interrogation scene in Basic Instinct has left enough of an impression that Topper’s “I know what to get your for Christmas,” comment to Michelle still draws a chuckle but do you remember Body of Evidence and the first President Bush vomiting at a state dinner? Not all of the jokes have aged well but Charlie Sheen does a decent Rambo impersonation and Lloyd Bridges’s dim bulb President is one of the more relatable parts of the movie. Fortunately, jokes about Saddam Hussein getting flattened by a piano will always be funny.

A Movie A Day #224: Armed and Dangerous (1986, directed by Mark L. Lester)

Posted on August 20, 2017 by Jedadiah Leland

John Candy and Eugene Levy make a great team in the underrated comedy, Armed and Dangerous.

John Candy plays Frank Dooley, a member of the LAPD. One of the first scenes of the movie is Frank climbing up a tree to save a little boy’s kitten and then getting stuck in the tree himself. When Frank discovers two corrupt detectives stealing televisions, Frank is framed for the theft and kicked off the force.

Eugene Levy plays Norman Kane, a lawyer whose latest client is a Charles Manson-style cult leader who has a swastika carved into his head. After being repeatedly threatened with murder, Norman asks for a sidebar and requests that the judge sentence his client to life in prison. The judge agrees on the condition that Norman, whom he describes as being “the worst attorney to ever appear before me,” find a new line of work.

Frank and Norman end up taking a one day training course to act as security guards and are assigned to work together by their tough by sympathetic supervisor (Meg Ryan!). Assigned to guard a pharmaceutical warehouse, Frank and Norman stumble across a robbery. The robbery leads them to corruption inside their own union and, before you can say 80s cop movie, Frank and Norman are ignoring the orders of their supervisors and investigating a crime that nobody wants solved.

Armed and Dangerous was one of the many comedy/cop hybrid films of the 1980s. Like Beverly Hills Cop, it features Jonathan Banks as a bad guy. Like the recruits in Police Academy, all of Frank and Norman’s fellow security guards are societal misfits who are distinguished by one or two eccentricities. There is nothing ground-breaking about Armed and Dangerous but Mark Lester did a good job directing the movie and the team of Candy and Levy (who has previously worked together on SCTV) made me laugh more than a few times.

Armed and Dangerous was originally written to be a vehicle for John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd. It’s easy to imagine Belushi and Aykroyd in the lead roles but I think the movie actually works better with Candy and Levy, whose comedic style was similar to but far less aggressive than that of Belushi and Aykroyd. One of the reasons that Armed and Dangerous works is because John Candy and Eugene Levy seem like the two last people to ever find themselves in a shootout or a car chase. With Belushi and Aykroyd, it would have been expected. After all, everyone’s seen The Blues Brothers.