Let's Boogie

Ohhhh Phillip. 

Readers, we’ve shared a lot with each other over the year-ish (well, actually I pretty much share with you), but somehow we’ve skipped a really important topic. One of the greatest cinematic achievements of the past several decades, and a truly perfect piece of Americana: Boogie Nights.

Let’s talk this out.

First of all, you’ve seen it right? If not, please stop reading right now. You’re banned from my blog, and you probably have no friends and you smell gross. Okay, that was unnecessary. But it’s readily available on Netflix and crap (I happen to own it on DVD, and encourage you to purchase your own copy as well), and you should be watching it right now.

There is literally so much to love about this movie I don’t know where to begin.

The music. Brand New Key by Melanie? Yes please. Electric Light Orchestra? Oh hells ya. And the scene with Sister Christian, Jesse’s Girl, and 99 Red Balloons?? Just. So. Beautiful.

The clothes. A polyester rainbow of beauty that puts JCPenny to shame. Bell bottoms, man-heels, feathered hair, snakeskin, tight in all the right places and sheer in the rest.

Speaking of tight, Mark Whalberg’s ass, amirite?? And abs. And arms. Okay I’ll stop now. Phwoar.

Come on, this cast! Have so many amazing people ever been in a movie together before or since? John C. Reilly, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Julianne Moore, William H. Macy, Don Cheadle, Heather Graham, Tina from the L Word (she has two lines), and, of course, the coup d’etat: Burt Reynolds in all his shiny, thick, salt and peppered glory. Sigh.

And finally, I don’t want to give anything away, but the final scene: yowza.

Thank you Paul Thomas Anderson, for this neon and glitter gift. We'll treasure it always.

**This post is dedicated to my baby sister who is definitely the only person who has seen this movie more times than myself, and possibly the editor of the film.