“St. Elmo’s Fire” (1985)

St. Elmo’s Fire

Grade: C-

Perhaps one of the reasons people love John Hughes’ The Breakfast Club (1985) is because we only get to see the teenage misfits for one single Saturday. Joel Schumacher’s St. Elmo’s Fire (also 1985), on the other hand, makes the mistake of showing us how those teenage misfits grew up to be insufferable yuppies, thinking we’ll care about their annoying post-grad lives. Self-important to the point of self-parody, it’s one of the low points of popular 1980s cinema.

Directing:

Like many Brat Pack films of the era, St. Elmo’s Fire has cozy visuals that sit midway between sitcom and Sixteen Candles. Schumacher provides ‘80s cheese that gets high on the smell of its own farts: the sweaty scenes of Rob Lowe ripping the saxophone; the pretentious “love sucks” dialogues from Andrew McCarthy; the rapturous sex scenes where the characters trash the apartment while fucking. Only a pretentious hack would think real people act like this. Or that real people would enjoy watching it.

Acting:

Every character is obnoxious, though whether that is due to a vapid screenplay or Brat Pack oversaturation remains up for debate. Judd Nelson goes against type as a preppy political wannabe, Emilio Estevez is an empty-headed borderline-psychopath, Demi Moore is a husky-voiced hot mess, Andrew McCarthy is an asshole hiding under a nice-guy façade, and Ally Sheedy is a down-to-earth material girl.

But the worst offender of all is Rob Lowe, who is supposed to be playing the “charismatic rebel” character (à la John Bender in The Breakfast Club) yet ends up becoming an embarrassing caricature of the trope, embodying all that is wrong with the movie. He’s repulsive, but not by design. The biggest issue with St. Elmo’s Fire is that these characters are actually intended to be inspiring, which prompts the actors to double down on their inflated egos.

Writing:

The movie is titled St. Elmo’s Fire because the main ensemble of Georgetown grads hangs out at a D.C. bar called St. Elmo’s. There are only two or three scenes at said bar, by the way. Probably because the characters are so far up their own asses that they’re only equipped to talk with each other. If you encountered any of them in public, their whole shtick would instantly fall apart.

The film follows the self-proclaimed “cool” kids from high school who never really grew up; a smug group who talk surface-level contemporary politics and try to sleep with each other every chance they can get. Worst of all, Schumacher thinks these sycophants are actually sophisticated. The attempts at humor are terrible (who in God’s name would ever think “Boogala boogala boogala” is a cute catchphrase?), but the attempts at profundity are even worse. St. Elmo’s Fire is nothing more than grade-school gossip in expensive clothes, with more harmful stereotypes than you can count.

Music:

Aforementioned “sexy” sax solos aside, St. Elmo’s Fire employs a soft-pop-rock soundtrack of cheesy synths, gated drums and the worst of what David Foster, John Parr, Billy Squier and — weirdly enough — Jon Anderson have to offer. This is music to be murdered by; a relentlessly upbeat soundtrack that amplifies the film’s own snobby obnoxiousness.

Ending (SPOILERS):

The climax of the film is when the drug-addled beauty queen, Jules (played by Moore), has a nervous breakdown. Naturally, using Schumacher’s ass-backwards logic, Rob Lowe’s Billy is the only one who can make her feel better. Never mind the fact that he sexually assaulted a few scenes earlier.

The entire intervention is another “we’re the most important people in the world” moment that prompts the friend group to realize the error of their ways and mature. No commentary on how drugs, alcohol and money are seemingly the source of all their problems? That’s okay — the lessons learned for Schumacher’s male characters are that stalking, cheating and intoxication are all charming ways to get the girl. And for Schumacher’s female characters, well, they’re written so thinly that the manipulative tactics actually work. They all decide that they are too old for St. Elmo’s and that they’re better off meeting for brunch at Houlihan’s instead. God help whoever is working the morning shift.

“And I think the reason I’m not interested in other women, and why I haven’t had sex in so long, is because I’m desperately, completely in love with you.” — Kevin Dolenz

Why St. Elmo’s Fire gets a C-

Insufferable empty-headed Brat Pack yuppie entertainment that is as embarrassing as Manning’s Blue City (1986) and Donaldson’s Cocktail (1988). Maybe more awful than Shumacher’s own Batman & Robin (1997).

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