The death last week of Chicago’s auteur, John Hughes, shook the foundations of a generation, and all those whose generations have since followed. Coming within a month of the demise of Michael Jackson, the message seems loud and clear: those days have ended. Michael’s death, sad as it was, surprised no one. He was our alien, bringing us strange wonderful magic from another place. We could love him, but never understand him.
But John Hughes, he was one of us. He “told me to myself,” as David Schneider writes herein. And in dying, he take a piece of our selves with him.
We asked writers to share their personal thoughts and experiences related to the John Hughes experience, and received an overwhelming response.
"I'm Going To Need A Gun": A Review Of John Wick—Chapter 4 This grim fairytale is relentless: the world, this world, wishes to kill simple, unostentatious assassin John Wick. Wick has offended the arcane rules of a reigning society that cannot bear the odor of any form of resistance.
The death last week of Chicago’s auteur, John Hughes, shook the foundations of a generation, and all those whose generations have since followed. Coming within a month of the demise of Michael Jackson, the message seems loud and clear: those days have ended. Michael’s death, sad as it was, surprised no one. He was our alien, bringing us strange wonderful magic from another place. We could love him, but never understand him.
