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I’m speaking, of course, of the holiest of comedic relics, the “I’m surrounded by assholes” scene in Spaceballs. It’s today’s Favorite Scene of the Day,
December 2, 2025
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I’m speaking, of course, of the holiest of comedic relics, the “I’m surrounded by assholes” scene in Spaceballs. It’s today’s Favorite Scene of the Day,
Take, for example, A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (1987), a sequel directed, improbably, by the same man who gave us The Blob
This scene cracks me up every single time I watch it, and I’ve watched it at least two hundred and fifty times. I don’t mean
Oddly, the cinematic scene that best captures this ritual isn’t some sepia-toned family drama or even Norman Rockwell’s overly earnest Freedom from Want. No, the
Every time I watch that scene, my entire body folds in on itself like a cheap deck chair. Shoulders to ears. Knees to chest. Eyes
There’s a universal law in the cinematic musical multiverse. If a pop star wanders onto your screen out of the blue, something ridiculous is about
I landed on a scene from Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter, known as Part IV, released in 1984, which, in classic horror-movie fashion, was
There are very few things that can make a grown adult reconsider owning dolls, but for me, it all began with one grainy VHS tape
A few years later, they made Wet Hot American Summer. It’s a film that, upon release, was largely ignored, as though the world simply wasn’t
There’s one scene, though, that deserves to be put in the Louvre, or at the very least looped forever in the background of a highbrow
But the reason the scene endures is because it’s us. It’s every dumb, joyful car ride we’ve ever had, every off-key duet we’ve ever screamed
There’s something oddly comforting about the fact that, in any column like this, Martin Scorsese is bound to show up early and often, like a
Yes, Dumbo; that compact, unassuming film, originally intended as a short and clocking in at a brisk 64 minutes; waddled onto screens and, to everyone’s
There are a few moments in cinema so uproariously funny, so joyously absurd, so perfectly executed, that they are seared into the collective comedic consciousness
Let us now consider the curious case of Randle Patrick McMurphy, the grinning, cigarette-dangling, borderline-saintly delinquent at the heart of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s
We’ve all been there. Or if we haven’t, we’ve hovered awkwardly near the edge, pretending to examine a bottle of shampoo while someone else’s emotional
Let me preface this with a confession that might get me canceled at brunch: I love Woody Allen movies. There. I said it. I realize
It’s 4:17 PM. You’ve been in the airport since roughly the Truman administration. The air smells like burnt Starbucks and the fear sweat of business
There are few universal human experiences more demeaning than a job interview. First dates, maybe. An MRI with bad jazz playing in your headphones, sure.
