About Last Night… (1986)

YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS

by Chris Cantoni

One of the more adult films to be associated with the “brat pack,” About Last Night… is a relationship dramedy dissecting the lives of two twenty-somethings in mid-1980s Chicago.  Directed by Edward Zwick from a script by Tim Kazurinsky and Denise DeClue, the film is based on the David Mamet’s play Sexual Perversity in Chicago (and that title would have sold a lot more movie tickets, come on).  If you’re not familiar with Mamet, he’s an extremely successful playwright, screenwriter, and director with an ear for interruptive, clever dialogue and “dudes being dudes,” to put it simply.  Unfortunately, I was more moved by my love for that grand city of Chicago than any flights of fancy hidden in the empty plot.

Maybe that’s a little unfair.  About Last Night… stars Rob Lowe looking sexy as ever (and after 25 years, this guy is aging pretty damn well) as Danny, alongside Demi Moore (hoarse as ever throughout - some people like that throaty thing) as Debbie.  Danny’s best friend and bullshit-spouting sexual conquest confidant is Bernie, played with the tiresome irritation we’ve come to expect from all things James Belushi.  Debbie’s roommate Joan, on the other hand, is played by the always forgotten yet infinitely talented Elizabeth Perkins (who even in Big’s romantic role is still slightly cast as some sort of bitch).

Danny and Debbie meet, “do it,” he calls her, she tries to refuse, they meet and do it again, spend an ungodly amount of time together (in perhaps the most eventful single day anyone has ever had in the city of Chicago, ever), and after two months decide to move in together.  Exactly what they see in each other is never made clear.  Debbie at one point mentions how incredibly gorgeous he is (and, dudes, lets face it: he is), and on her end she effects the sassy and dry sense of humor I find irresistible.  But the two of them together never get any deeper than the surface.

The problem with the film is that it isn’t a story so much as a template.  These characters are seemingly designed to be projected upon.  “Look honey, let’s go see this movie and emulate so much with the characters that we can just finish out this relationship in a quick two hours.”  They have friction with their friends and have difficulty communicating with each other.  Oh my, how much this echoes my life!  I can relate to this!  Except I’m not particularly interested.  Movies should be thought-provoking not thought-repeating.  Danny and Debbie have the same relationship as everyone else except without any poignant depth or reflection.

While the first half of the film is spent curiously wondering if we’ll get to see more of Demi Moore than just Rob Lowe’s butt, midway through there is a 10 or 15 minute montage (yes, a sex montage) filled with so much sex that you wonder if they ever have time to have a deep conversation anyway.  And yes, you see her boobs.  You see her boobs much more than you ever expected.  Except it isn’t particularly sexy.  While the teenage boy I once was would probably have fast-forwarded to this scene and watched it repeatedly, I can’t help being just slightly disinterested.  After all, what do I care about these people, these ghosts.  Having never materialized for me, their passionate love-making comes off as completely staged, two Barbie dolls moving together, their bodies containing more substance than their heads.

The one grace note of the film comes when Debbie confides to Joan about her and Danny’s inevitable split (spoiler alert for your life: people you can’t have interesting conversation with or get to know in any real way will never make for a good long term relationship).  She says “I just tried to make it like my parents” which hits home with every generation, thinking that we can duplicate what was never ours to begin with.

About Last Night… is all too true to its title, a foggy and drunken recollection of something some people did that one time that can only be trailed off with an ellipsis (that’s the …, BTW).  Perhaps once shocking with its realistic cursing and openly sexual conversations, the film is now best examined by those young enough to idealize it or those old enough to look back at a once familiar road.  Sadly, it fails to stand up on its own, without the audiences’ personal experiences to tread upon.

(WATCH THE ENTIRE FILM HERE, via YouTube)

Chris Cantoni is an aspiring screenwriter living in Los Angeles.  He was away from the site all last month, on a trip to Zambia, and we missed him.  (Welcome back, Chris!) He tumbls here.