Back when I first saw this film in a cinema in 1985, I hated it for being so callow and smug. I can't say I feel that differently about its defects, but I don't hate "St. Elmo's Fire" anymore. It kind of captures the charm of the period even if it grasps annoyingly at times for laughs and pathos.
Seven young people just graduated from Georgetown University find themselves up against various life challenges revolving around love. Political aide Alec (Judd Nelson) wants to marry his live-in girlfriend Leslie (Ally Sheedy), but she's not sure. Journalist Kevin (Andrew McCarthy) hides his secret love, while waiter Kirby (Emilio Estevez) and social worker Wendy (Mare Winningham) are pathetically unable to conceal theirs. Billy (Rob Lowe) is married with a baby but can't stay faithful, while Jules (Demi Moore) dances as fast as she can with her office affairs and cocaine habit.
"It's our time on the edge," is how Billy puts it, but that edge seldom merits our interest. Unfortunately, director-writer Joel Schumacher's indulgent handling of his characters' various angsts creates a gulf for viewers like me. He likes them too much, I think, for them to be successful comic-tragic figures.
Too many groaner lines in the script, too, the kind that seem crafted for trailer use rather than real human dialogue: "Wasted love! God, I just wish I could get it back!" "I'm obsessed, thank you very much!" "Let's rock!" "You break my heart. Then again, you break everyone's heart!" Catch-phrase overuse really gets out of hand.
I won't say "St. Elmo's Fire" is so bad it's good, but it's certainly distinctive in a way that I think has improved it over the years. Much of it is in the way of camp value. But it also captures a period in time, and a group of young actors, at a point when pop culture was coming together around them. They became known as the Brat Pack, which made them seem even more insufferably popular than they already were. The "Brat Pack" moniker was something they didn't accept, and Schumacher whines about it on his DVD commentary, but it made them what they were and in this film anyway, they seem to live up to that image, with their toilet dunking and ritual chants.
Another thing Schumacher mentions on his commentary is the dinging he got for the film's elitist tone. He makes the point that the critics mistook "content for intent," but it's hard to miss the snooty ways the main characters look down on the poor unfortunates around them who aren't as cool as they are, whether it be a sad naked guy wandering a hospital corridor, a gay designer, or Wendy's schlubby suitor.
"Welfare recipients are getting better looking," says Billy, which would be wrong in anyone's mouth but particularly so from the sculpted lips of Rob Lowe. It's the kind of line that screams for a comeuppance that never really comes.
What works for the film is mainly visual. The wet streets, pastel shirts, neon ties, and Billy Idol wall mural all scream 1980s, but in a better way than they did then. The David Foster score still holds up, as do the two hit songs from the soundtrack. And the actors do work well together, playing against each other naturally and with considerable charm, even if Nelson does fume and McCarthy rub his eyes too much.
It's a time capsule film, one that deserves to be in its time capsule most of the time. But it has moments of real entertainment, perhaps nostalgia, perhaps something deeper, a sense of life's passage experienced in a kind of contented bubble you know is about to pop.
Seven young people just graduated from Georgetown University find themselves up against various life challenges revolving around love. Political aide Alec (Judd Nelson) wants to marry his live-in girlfriend Leslie (Ally Sheedy), but she's not sure. Journalist Kevin (Andrew McCarthy) hides his secret love, while waiter Kirby (Emilio Estevez) and social worker Wendy (Mare Winningham) are pathetically unable to conceal theirs. Billy (Rob Lowe) is married with a baby but can't stay faithful, while Jules (Demi Moore) dances as fast as she can with her office affairs and cocaine habit.
"It's our time on the edge," is how Billy puts it, but that edge seldom merits our interest. Unfortunately, director-writer Joel Schumacher's indulgent handling of his characters' various angsts creates a gulf for viewers like me. He likes them too much, I think, for them to be successful comic-tragic figures.
Too many groaner lines in the script, too, the kind that seem crafted for trailer use rather than real human dialogue: "Wasted love! God, I just wish I could get it back!" "I'm obsessed, thank you very much!" "Let's rock!" "You break my heart. Then again, you break everyone's heart!" Catch-phrase overuse really gets out of hand.
I won't say "St. Elmo's Fire" is so bad it's good, but it's certainly distinctive in a way that I think has improved it over the years. Much of it is in the way of camp value. But it also captures a period in time, and a group of young actors, at a point when pop culture was coming together around them. They became known as the Brat Pack, which made them seem even more insufferably popular than they already were. The "Brat Pack" moniker was something they didn't accept, and Schumacher whines about it on his DVD commentary, but it made them what they were and in this film anyway, they seem to live up to that image, with their toilet dunking and ritual chants.
Another thing Schumacher mentions on his commentary is the dinging he got for the film's elitist tone. He makes the point that the critics mistook "content for intent," but it's hard to miss the snooty ways the main characters look down on the poor unfortunates around them who aren't as cool as they are, whether it be a sad naked guy wandering a hospital corridor, a gay designer, or Wendy's schlubby suitor.
"Welfare recipients are getting better looking," says Billy, which would be wrong in anyone's mouth but particularly so from the sculpted lips of Rob Lowe. It's the kind of line that screams for a comeuppance that never really comes.
What works for the film is mainly visual. The wet streets, pastel shirts, neon ties, and Billy Idol wall mural all scream 1980s, but in a better way than they did then. The David Foster score still holds up, as do the two hit songs from the soundtrack. And the actors do work well together, playing against each other naturally and with considerable charm, even if Nelson does fume and McCarthy rub his eyes too much.
It's a time capsule film, one that deserves to be in its time capsule most of the time. But it has moments of real entertainment, perhaps nostalgia, perhaps something deeper, a sense of life's passage experienced in a kind of contented bubble you know is about to pop.