Take Me Home Tonight
How do you know when your movie sucks? How about when it takes four years to get it released. Or maybe when the male lead is an anorexic Topher Grace, and his best friend is played by that fat dude from "Balls of Fury."
How do you know when your movie sucks? How about when it takes four years to get it released. Or maybe when the male lead is an anorexic Topher Grace, and his best friend is played by that fat dude from "Balls of Fury." Or could it be when the title of the fucking film is lifted from an EDDIE MONEY song from 1986?
"Take Me Home Tonight" completes this trifecta of suckitude and adds so many more flaming paper bags of dog shit to the porch that is your 80's nostalgia – as long as your nostalgia consists entirely of poorly dressed losers doing blow in a Hollywood bathroom and then fucking a MILF while a German dude masturbates in a leather jacket. I'm not even making that last part up – that's an actual scene in this movie. I'm going to assume that the only reason "Take Me Home Tonight" wasn't given the title "Seymour Butts And His Awkward Journey of Sexual Discovery With Your Mom" was due to some type of oversight at the executive level.
What other clichés are mined for tedious plot points in "Take Me Home Tonight?" How about stockbroker yuppies in wheelchairs, everyone wearing suits all the time and Michelle Tratchenberg trying to recapture a little bit of her lost Buffy glory as the prototype Hot Topic goth who exists only to "get naked" with the previously-mentioned "fat friend." The entire film feels like director Michael Dowse spent a weekend watching "Dazed and Confused" over and over again, intercut with Miami Vice and Head of the Class reruns. The end result is a gentle coming of age story that touches on the themes of self-acceptance, personal growth and the wisdom of abandoning childish things.
Ha! No. The end result is like some kind of fucked up re-recording of "We Are The World," only this time instead of Phil Collins and Michael Jackson the vocal duties have been assigned to Willem Dafoe and ALF. Right era, wrong talent pool. Grace and co. might know the words, but the fact is, they were fetuses during the Me Decade, and as a result their ability to adequately recapture anything more than a faint echo of the frenetic energy surrounding Cyndi Lauper's ever-changing hair styles is lukewarm at best. Picture a monkey painting the Mona Lisa with its own feces and you're close to understanding "Take Me Home Tonight." And probably mad turned on.
Come to think of it, however, it's been a long time since I've seen a movie where fetuses were cast in starring roles. Maybe it's time for another "Look Who's Talking" sequel, or maybe "InnerSpace 3: Leonard Nimoy's Brain."
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