I’m addicted to the Watch Instantly feature on Netflix.com. It’s the only way I can bribe myself into doing dishes, folding laundry, making dinner, etc. I also have a burning love of 80’s movies. So, when I found out that I could watch Mannequin on my computer while making dinner on Saturday, I was in heaven. But, after I started watching it, I was horribly disturbed.
As a kid, I was in love with Andrew McCarthy. Mannequin, Class, Pretty in Pink, St. Elmo’s Fire – I watched them all over and over and over again. Andrew McCarthy was almost as good as John Cusack (but who will ever be as good as Lloyd Dobler, you know?). I even remember an awkward interlude on an episode of Muppet Babies where Baby Piggy professed her love for Mr. McCarthy, so I knew I was in good company (and you now know about the odd, Rain Man way my brain absorbs and stores anything in television form). But when I watched Mannequin this time, I was not swooning over Andrew. I kind of wanted to bake him cookies and ask him if he was remembering to eat his veggies. In other words, he looked like an infant.
When the hell did that happen? I know in reality Andrew McCarthy isn’t an infant. In fact, at 46, he’s a totally age appropriate older man who could sweep me off my feet crush. But I have no interest in watching him in Lipstick Jungle (I think it’s canceled now anyway), because it’s not a crappy 80’s movie (which is, after all, my favorite movie genre).
I want my McCarthy fix to come complete with music by Starship, shoulder pads, power suits, and the light-hearted buffoonery of Meshack Taylor. But I want to swoon instead of having maternal thoughts about him. While I was watching, I couldn’t stop thinking that he can’t be getting enough sleep staying up all night cavorting around the department store with Kim Cattrall. Being sleep deprived is a surefire way to get sick, you know.
I think someone should go in and digitally enhance all Brat Pack movies to make the male actors look older so us thirty-somethings can walk down memory lane without feeling weird about it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch Say Anything again. I’m too afraid I’ll have the burning desire to spit in a Kleenex and wipe Lloyd Dobler’s cheeks.