In 1982 my Grandpa had to carry me out of a matinee showing of E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial. My legs didn’t work because I was using every ounce of my then 4-year-old energy to both wet his shoulder with great sobbing alligator tears and gasp out dramatically “E.T., DON’T GO HOOOOME!” Thirty years later I’m still a huge pussy. And if you plop me in a darkened theatre and unspool a tale as spectacular as Super 8, I’m a f*cking goner.
My generation, seemingly more than any other, has a hard/heart on for the pop culture of our youth – toys, TV shows, music and especially movies. If any music from The Karate Kid is ever in earshot, Nuv and all of his friends will stop, smile and sing along. If The Goonies, Monster Squad or The Lost Boys are ever on TV, I will slowly halt whatever I’m doing – folding laundry, feeding Stella (which results in hooting yelps and feces being flung at me) – to watch.
Oh sure, there’s lots to be stoked about in 2011. But there are also deep trenches of turd slopping all over the place in Hollywood, the Internet and pop culture in general. (See: Rebecca Black’s Friday, an abysmally catchy, lyrical equivalent of finding a pubic hair in your teeth, the Black Eyed Pea’s bank account, every item in American Apparel, Zookeeper, Dora the Explorer etc.) With Super 8, JJ Abrams has, with a gentle bearded nod from producer Steven Spielberg, concocted a big old love letter to the movies of our childhood, and in doing so has erected a beautiful dam for the wreckage that is “entertainment” right now.
If you want a plot synopsis, you’ll not get it here. This project was kept under very tight wraps, which only lead to my stoked-ness (it’s a word, I promise), so I’m not going to spill a drop. Instead, I’ll break it down like this: it’s a Buddy Holly ditty, filled with moments so sweet and sour you never want it to end; it’s your sole income being pocket change pilfered from the bottom of your mom’s purse; it’s when you realized adults could be vulnerable at times, scared even; it’s when mysteries could be real and you’d daydream about yourself hanging off the back of the Mystery Machine; it’s about when bad things, forever things, happen and the dull ache seemed to take forever to go away; it’s the first time you held hands with that boy you had a crush on in Grade 8 and you noticed he bit his nails down to the quick but smelled really good, so it was cool to call him your boyfriend; it’s the feeling of the last day of school, before you had to get a job, when the summer was laid out before you like a long twisty road with overflowing bowls of cereal wolfed down while watching The Price Is Right, the tinkling sirens of ice cream trucks, the first sip of a bottled frosty cream soda, forbidden Super Channel movies with boobs and sneaking out to take late night walks with whispering friends, muffling laughter through tall damp grass with no destination in mind. Ultimately Super 8 is really a beautiful blast from the past – like being 11 again, right before the painful sprinkling of acne, crippling self-doubt and geometry homework ruined everything.
Now, a tremendous premise and familiar time period (1979) will only take you so far; it’s the actors that will sell the soul of a flick. They nailed it. From the lead character, the thoughtful and sweet-faced Joe Lamb, and his ragtag crew of friends, the brace-faced firecracker expert Cary, the rosy-cheeked chubby amateur filmmaker Charles, and Alice the requisite blonde love interest who’s tough yet vulnerable, all the child actors are authentic and real looking and sounding kids who look like they were plunked out of a small town in the late 70s.
With my favourite high school football coach of all time as the stern cop Dad, and the corrupt mayor from The Wire as a high school teacher key to the unfolding mystery, I was pretty much in casting heaven. Throw in the smaller roles being characters straight out of 80s central casting (the slutty older sister, the long-haired drunk from the wrong side of the tracks, the stoner clerk, the old friendly sheriff) and you have win win win all the way home.
As the best movies unfold, you should run the gamut of emotions and reactions – I was scared a good number of times, I was caught up in the sweeping adventure the whole friggin’ time, and I was delighted and refreshed by the dialogue, so perfectly written and delivered in the small scenes and moments that made you love and care for and root for the characters. As the credits rolled (be sure to stay for them – you won’t be sorry), my Grandpa wasn’t there to gently rub my back or dry my cheeks, but that’s okay. I’d been transported back to a time where all good things were possible and the best time of your life was just about to begin, and that’s almost as good.
Psst, want more “movies are awesome!” material by Miss Teen USSR? Right, then peep her favourite scenes of 2010 here, some choice movie trailers dissected here, and The Oscar telecast devoured here.
