"In some ways, it’s the Pearl Jam of action movies: the great thing that inspired a million shitty imitators."

Apart from his turn as Spicoli, it was what he was best known for in the '80s.

Finally, a rockist outrage loud enough to drown out the Moody Blues fans.

The bus fare is the real killer.

Dad, sit down.

The other two are insufferable meditations on the banality of middle-class white America. Moonlight is a visual tone poem about the trials of living at the bottom of the minority ladder. There's a world of difference.

Few makeout records are as epic as Ágætis byrjun, which imbues even the most fumbling efforts with cinematic scope.

Not Moonlight. The other two, absolutely.

Oh my god, this is the best descriptor EVER.

The only salvageable part.

Hated hated hated HATED this flick. The creation sequence was one of the most awe-inspiring things I've ever seen (save for the atrocious voiceover), but the human interest story was the definition of tedium. Wow, even the most minute details of our lives have profound repercussions throughout the lineage of time!…

One of my friends is obsessed with Buffy, and introduced me to it by selecting which episodes to watch. As I recall, we skipped a LOT of the first two seasons, saving just enough for me to get the point. You oughta keep watching at least until you get to the Mayor, who is one of the most fun villians ever.

My sister and I saw this in the theater because she was crazy about Luke Perry and I was crazy about Paul Reubens. And that death scene has stuck with me ever since, too.

GET HIM, MAN!

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. A particularly harsh breakup in my twenties—and the perspective gleaned from the ensuing years—led me to realize that even our most miserable experiences can define us in surprisingly positive ways, and that the only time worth living for is now. Thank you for such a beautiful epitaph…

Way to lift that awkward banner photo from HuffPo. Too bad he didn't have any more iconic pics to choose from.

Ah, that age-old argument again, the classic What Defines Horror?, in which casual fans and breathless acolytes alike get to duke it out in the dimly lit grotto with the derisive catch-all monker of Genre™. Myself, I subscribe to the theory that any film whose primary intent is to scare you qualifies as horror—this…

"or Paul Ryan being forced to delete Rage Against The Machine from his 'Getting Pumped' gym playlist and replace it with the death rattles of cancer patients"

I was just reminded yesterday of an old VHS our fifth-grade teacher used to show us on occasion back in '93. I did a quick Google search, and sure enough, the entire thing's on YouTube. The Internet is fucking amazing.

That'd be a start.