It is considered poor form to speak ill of the dead.  The presumption is that the very act of passing from this world washes away sin, bad manners, and any and all crimes and misdemeanours committed by the recently deceased.  Whatever injustices or harm done by the person when alive can be set aside, at least during the period of mourning.

It is an interesting theory, one I don't particularly subscribe to.  What better time to give a full and fair appraisal of an individual's worth when they have just shuffled off the mortal coil?  If you were a bastard in life you remain a bastard in death.

Which brings me to John Hughes.  It seems to me that many of the things that George Lucas and Steven Spielberg are accused of as populist filmmakers - of 'dumbing down' mainstream cinema, of instilling a 'blockbuster' mentality in audiences by pandering to their base instincts and desires, of creating and perpetuating a bland, unchallenging entertainment formula to pacify the masses - can be more accurately levelled at Hughes, who died on August 6th.

The 1980s was a dire decade for American film, especially when considered in comparison to the Hollywood 'silver age' that preceded it.  Hughes was commonly thought a kind of commercial poet of the era, examining the teenage experience in both superficial melodramas ("The Breakfast Club") and wish-fulfilment comedies ("Ferris Bueller's Day Off").  Regressing still further, albeit as a writer, he then instigated two of the most mind-numbingly awful family movie cycles ever: the "Home Alone" and "Beethoven" franchises.

I remain happily ignorant of the two Molly Ringwald vehicles that Hughes crafted for his large-toothed muse, "Pretty in Pink" and "Sixteen Candles".  If "The Breakfast Club" is anything to go by they probably suffer from contrivance and a feeling of artificiality that comes from the fact that their author is a fat guy in his 30s trying to remember what high school was really like.  The insight and wit of Cameron Crowe's "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" will be sorely lacking.

If we are looking for saving graces in the thankfully truncated Hughes career they are to be found in a couple of comedies that do deliver some belly laughs and even the odd poignant moment.  His script for "National Lampoon's Vacation" gives Chevy Chase something to work with and his "Planes, Train and Automobiles" succeeds in turning Steve Martin and John Candy into a latter day Laurel and Hardy.  Perhaps Hughes should have stayed away from the kids, the teens and the big dogs and written exclusively for middle aged refugees from "Saturday Night Live".