From the New Yorker about last night’s Oscars.  I love this:

The one thing that none of us could have predicted was that our hearts, and our film-going habits of yore, should be stirred by a montage of old John Hughes movies. All of a sudden, folded and pasted together, as if in a yearbook or a photograph album, the clippings didn’t look dated, or tacky, or constrained by their setting. They looked like an authentic portrait of American teen-age yearning, both raucous and shy: “My God, are we going to be like our parents?” Emilio Estevez asked, in a line from “The Breakfast Club.” The question reverberated around the auditorium last night more searchingly than ever, as parent and grandparents, the elders and betters of their profession, gazed kindly, and with boundless apprehension, upon the next wave of kids. It seems impossible that Kate Winslet’s hair, the most beautiful arrangement since the heyday of Veronica Lake, could ever be outgleamed, and outbrushed, by other locks; but even perfect beauty, as Yeats was sorry to inform us, will grow old and gray and full of sleep. Just look at Antonio Banderas’s beard.

Read the whole thing.  It’s worth it.