Molly Ringwald remembers John Hughes:
After Truffaut died, I heard that Jean-Pierre Léaud had suffered a kind of breakdown, going so far as to drop flower pots on people from high-storied buildings. This is most likely a rumor, French film lore, but I think I now understand how painful it is to lose someone like that. John was my Truffaut. A week after I sent my letter, I received a bouquet of flowers as big as my apartment from John, thanking me for writing. I was so relieved to know that I had gotten through to him, and I feel grateful now for that sense of closure.
You may have also read this nice post from a fan who became pen pals with the Breakfast Club director. Interesting to see that his retreat from Hollywood came in part because of the way he felt his buddy John Candy had been treated.
I had a sincere affection for Hughes’ early films, although it’s been a long time since I’ve revisited them. I caught up with Pretty in Pink a year ago and none of it clicked for me at all. (Maybe it’s too obvious that Jon Cryer’s character needs to find a nice man.) But 16 Candles is hilarious with an epic party sequence, and The Breakfast Club is Sartre in the high school. Around the same time, Francis Ford Coppola seemed to think “art films for kids” meant adapting S.E. Hinton. Hughes had his finger on a much more human pulse.