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Misspent Youth: Superman III
Looking back at the pop culture mainstays of this Gen-Xer's gloriously misspent youth.
Superman III hit theaters June 17, 1983. Because I was a rabid eight year old fan of the first two movies in the franchise—both of which remain all-time favorites as well as two of the best superhero movies ever made—I walked into this one expecting more of the same brilliance. Instead, what I got was something else entirely. With a game Richard Pryor nobly bumbling his way through this mess (all along likely plotting to fire his agent), the brilliance of the first two movies was nowhere to be found. Remember, Lois Lane (my girl Margot Kidder) appears only briefly, as the film's action quickly moves from Metropolis to Smallville for Clark Kent's high school reunion, thus breaking the heart of this young Lois/Margot admirer. It was mostly downhill from there for that eight year old kid.
Margot had to know this was a turkey, and got out while the getting was good.
I won't rehash the plot except to say Clark/Superman (Christopher Reeve) reunites with his first love, the lovely Lana Lang (Annette O'Toole) while home for the class reunion. At the same time a nefarious millionaire (Robert Vaughn), disgruntled over Superman stopping his plot to take over the world's coffee supply (you can't make this shit up), devises a plan to destroy the Man of Steel. Soon enough, Superman (Christopher Reeve) is transformed into a Bizarro-ish mean version of himself, thanks to being exposed to some seriously flawed Kryptonite.
You wouldn't like him when he's angry.
Reeve spends a chunk of the film acting like a boorish, petulant petty criminal (in other words, a teenager), even downing shots of whiskey at a bar, all while wearing a costume that with hindsight looks like a precursor to the depressing, washed out, dulled colors of what passes for superhero costumes today. Simply put, it's a weird movie, a hodgepodge of disparate elements that when slammed together make very little sense. Yet that also makes it, at times, a riot. I couldn't appreciate the B-movie level badness of it as a kid, but I certainly do now.
At least the film exposed a large number of kids to the brilliance of Richard Pryor for the first time.
Oh, have I mention Pamela Stephenson yet? Because I really should mention her. Frequently. Like, all the time. Let's just talk about her, okay?
The 1980s just exploded all over Pamela Stephenson.
She's one of the more memorable villainous vixens in cinematic superhero history and in many ways a 1980s cousin to the funny and flirtatious gun molls that appeared with regularity in the 1960s Batman television series. Stephenson plays Lorelei, Vaughn's character's assistant and girlfriend (Vaughn, you devil). Lorelei acts the part of the dumb blonde sexpot when in reality she's a genius-level nerd who reads about Kantian philosophy, because, why the hell not? To say that Ms. Stephenson briefly helped me forget about the disappearance of Margot Kidder from the film would be accurate. Whenever Stephenson vamped on screen, the temperature in the theater spiked considerably. Yikes.
Pamela Stephenson was a vision in this film, son, and don't you forget it.
Even if I'd gotten my hands on this promo poster in 1983 there's no way my mother would've allowed it on my wall. Boo.
Don't let the big hair and big...um...necklace fool you. Lorelei's a real-deal smarty.
Seriously, though. Metaphysical philosophy. For real.
Just the usual shenanigans at the villains' lair.
One scene in particular has always stood out as emblematic of the WTF nature of the film. Featuring a lascivious Superman and the nuclear sex bomb Lorelei talking dirty to each other on top of the Statue of Liberty, it's clear the innuendo-laden scene went right over the heads of most little kiddies.
The way it's filmed only enhances the kink factor. One shot is framed so that Supes' well-endowed, um, Super Package looms suggestively near Lorelei's face, just...waiting. It gets better, by the way. Superman then asks, pointedly, "What did you have in mind?" To which Lorelei responds in her best, most breathless Marilyn Monroe voice, "Lots of things." Oof. Even though nothing happens (yet!), it still feels like a scene ripped from a softcore porn flick. In other words, it's hilariously sexy and still shocking to see it in a film ostensibly aimed at children. I couldn't believe my eight year old eyes—was Superman about to get busy on top of a national monument? My little mind was blown.
Is it hot in here, or is it just Pamela Stephenson?
Here's the clip, in full. Watch 'til the end or you'll miss the Lorelei-Supes consummation scene. Yep, that's a thing that happens. Off camera, but it totally happens.
Superman III was one of my first times I remember being disappointed in a movie (the following year Supergirl would equally confound and disappoint younger me). I was only eight, remember, and not yet sophisticated enough in the wily ways of wine, women, and song to grasp the purposely raunchy humor in the Statue of Liberty scene. Now, I think it's genius!
Now that I know this exists, I'll be hunting all day on eBay for a copy. Thanks, Internet!
Superman III, then, has become a much more enjoyable film for me now than it was in 1983. Sure, the movie's a mess, as if they took parts of several different scripts and just threw them together, not caring to make them cohere in any way. These days, that messiness is part of the charm. After all, it's the only instance I can recall where Superman makes the horizontal mambo with a blonde bombshell next to a roaring fire in a remote snow-capped chalet. That's something, right?
This month marks sixty-five years since one of the most iconic moments in twentieth-century popular culture: Marilyn Monroe’s angelic white dress being blown sky high by wind rushing up from a subway grate beneath her feet in the film The Seven Year Itch . Billy Wilder shot multiple takes, while Sam Shaw snapped photo after photo for what had to be the biggest publicity stunt ever staged at the time. Marilyn wore two pairs of underwear for the shot, yet, as noted in Lois Banner's critical biography Marilyn: The Passion and the Paradox (2012), "a dark blotch of pubic hair" remained visible to the 100 male photographers and over 1,500 male spectators, all of whom crowded eagerly around the set to gawk and drool. Due to strict 1950s movie censorship laws, photos had to be doctored to white out the offending blotch, but those in attendance saw it, over and over, shot after shot. Marilyn's husband at the time, the extremely old fashioned Joe DiMaggio, stormed off th
Joe Dante's 1980s classic Gremlins will always be a subversive Christmas favorite. From Spike exploding in the microwave to Mrs. Daigle's "stairlift to hell", the movie is packed with deliciously transgressive moments that turn the holly jolly season right on its ear. None are more memorable, though, than Phoebe Cates delivering her legendary "worst thing that ever happened to me on Christmas" monologue. It's a jaw-dropping, tour-de-force moment, a truly horrific story that's also one of the most darkly comic moments in Christmas movie history. Cates really shines during this scene. There's no denying just how seminal that scene of hers in Fast Times at Ridgemont High was for a generation of young people, but her speech in Gremlins is equally important and a wonderful showcase for her serious and comedic acting skills. Here's the speech, in its entirety. No Christmas season is complete without at least one viewing
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Looking back at the pop culture mainstays of this Gen-Xer's gloriously misspent youth. One of the most famous and oft-quoted Seinfeld scenes involves Bobka and Jerry's discovery of the existence of Cinnamon Bobka. After Elaine scoffs at the notion of such a thing, even calling it a "lesser Bobka," Jerry unleashes one of the great defenses of a freshly ground spice ever delivered: People love cinnamon. It should be on tables at restaurants along with salt and pepper. Anytime anyone says, "Oh This is so good. What's in it?" The answer invariably comes back, Cinnamon. Cinnamon. Again and again. Joanne Whalley is like Cinnamon. Yes, I just compulsively double-checked my DVD copy and it's the unrated version, thank you very much. Let me explain. You see, during the formative years of my misspent youth, if I stumbled on a movie featuring the doe-eyed, petite, beautiful English actress, invariably I'd feel like Jerry does about Cin
Looking back at the pop culture mainstays of this Gen-Xer's gloriously misspent youth. ***** A note on the series and this site: This might be the final post in the "Misspent Youth" series - at least here. Maybe it'll eventually move with me. Oh, right, I buried the lede: I've moved, and would love for you to come visit me at my new site, The Starfire Lounge ! Moving forward, this site will likely cease to be updated, but will remain around for posterity and your continued reading pleasure. I have a few more things to post here over the coming days or weeks as a sort of "everything must go" send-off to the old girl. I also plan to write a final farewell post to my main online home for the last five years. Stay tuned and, as always, thanks for reading. ***** It's no surprise that the talented but now mostly forgotten Randi Brooks would make an appearance in the Misspent Youth series. She may not be a household name, but her resume
"I dream about sex, flying, and being chased by Nazis." — Margot Kidder, Rolling Stone , "The Education of Margot Kidder", 1981 ***** File that quote under, "Reasons why I love Margot Kidder." Last month, Margot hopped a one-way flight with old pal Chris Reeve off into the stars and beyond, where they could reenact their iconic moment from Superman (1978), for all eternity. I wrote a little about Margot, here and here , trying to explain why this particular actress meant so much to me as a kid growing up in the 1980s. I thought that would be enough. It wasn't.* Those posts were my fumbling attempts to sort out just how large an impact Margot had on my young life, and, to my present-day surprise, how much she still means to me now. Before news of her death, I hadn't thought of her in ages. I assumed the early childhood crush I harbored for my Lois Lane had dwindled and faded. Ha! I was a fool. My crush on Margot was very
This series looks back at the 1990s and its influence on the generation of people who came of age during the decade. For six seasons in the 1990s, The Nanny made many of us laugh. At times, it could be downright hilarious . At others, well, not so much . This isn't a review of a '90s sitcom staple, though. No. This is simply an excuse to come clean about something I've kept buried deep inside for over two decades now: I had a secret crush on The Nanny herself, Fran Drescher. The unadulterated nineties-ness of this is practically blinding. And I love it. While The Nanny was sometimes quite funny, thanks largely to Drescher's spunky charisma and wholehearted commitment, the show was never considered hip. People my parents age seemed to love it, but my friends preferred, well, Friends . That smile! Those legs! That dress! It's all overloading my circuits. I watched Friends with my friends, but I also thoroughly enjoyed The Nanny , to
She wants there to be more of her. More space taken by her body, More decibels conquered by her voice, More time by her wakefulness, More equations by her addition. She wants more, I want less. Her blade is rusty, musty, sweaty and vain. I like it clean and sharp and dark-bright. She traffics in surplus, I bare my essentials. Her world is elastic but brittle. Mine is bony but moonlit. Hers flows, she ebbs. Mine ebbs, I flow. She dies in life, I live in death. —Zoe Lund, “Opium Wars”
Looking back at the movies, music, television, and other pop culture mainstays of this Gen-Xer's gloriously misspent youth. Once I decided that Morgan Fairchild would be the subject of the next installment in this series, I did what I usually do and researched online for a bit, just to refresh my memory on details that might've previously been lost to time. Morgan Fairchild was legitimately one of the most potent sex symbols of the 1970s and '80s. Not that I needed much refresher when it came to Fairchild. Born Patsy Ann McClenny in Dallas, Texas, February 3, 1950, the American actress was everywhere during those oh-so-crucial formative years of my pop culture obsession. She loomed large in the growing ranks of proto-haughty glamour queens, a trope that was hot on prime time TV in the 1980s. The characters she was most well-known for were drop-dead gorgeous and didn't suffer fools lightly. Really, few ever did it better than Fairchild. The shirt do
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