It was a dark and stormy week at the end of September, and while sheltering with my parents and assisting them in eating the good steaks out of the freezer in case the power were to go out, we, of course, watched movies. Just some things to distract us between the official NOAA hurricane advisories every three hours. Ironically, I made us watch the big-budget and relatively unknown Cecil B. Demille joint Reap the Wild Wind (1942), which is largely set in Key West and has a fucking hurricane in it. But who could resist John Wayne in an old-timely diving suit wrestling a sea creature?
When that was over, we were sipping rum cocktails and flipping through the channels and landed on a more comforting old flick from my childhood: Tremors (1990). There is literally nothing wrong with this movie. It's got that rare chocolate peanut butter cup combination of horror and humor that truly, deeply works.
So my mom points at the screen at some point and says "How long have you been on Jeff Bridges now? Kevin Bacon is hot. He sings to his goats. He should be your next boyfriend."
I'm an old pro at this fake boyfriend shit but I can only superficially explain how one turns on and off their crushes. In that very instant--as if Mom were the world's greatest hypnotist simply snapping her fingers in front of my eyes--I finally saw Kevin Bacon. You go your whole life seeing maybe a dozen of his movies here and there, always knowing he's famous for being in everything, working with everyone. But you mostly remember (and appreciate) him for this one campy Sci-Fi Channel standard because your parents let their 10-year-old kid watch the Sci-Fi Channel and Beetlejuice and The X-Files and you still don't understand how that was allowed to happen but you're thankful for it.
There he suddenly was, with shiny flyaway girl hair, wearing tight jeans and a cowboy hat and that winning grin, as if formed especially for me out of thin air. When I went home and checked out his Instagram, he was plucking away at a ukulele in a wifebeater and a straw hat, a goat chewing on his jeans, a beatific 64-year-old dreamboat.
Kevin. Fucking. Bacon. Of course.
By happenstance, October is the only time of the year that I seek out horror films. I'm not a big Halloween person but I like to vaguely get in the mood with apropos movies. And Mr. Bacon just happens to star in quite a few scary titles of varying quality. Shortly after his tiny debut in Animal House (1978) there was Friday the 13th (1980). I had already seen Flatliners (1990) in the past (probably another Sci-Fi Channel viewing), so I re-watched that, marveling at the collection of Gen-X icons all dying to die. Stir of Echoes (1999) was a revelation (so much sweaty shirtlessness), unfortunately eclipsed by the very thematically similar The Sixth Sense that same year. A year later, Hollow Man happened, unfortunately, and wouldn't have been so hard to swallow if it were about twenty minutes shorter, but you can't win them all.
I also spent the month watching his unscary work, catching up on stuff I halfway remember being a big deal (A Few Good Men (1992), Diner (1982)) and re-watching stuff I know I had seen half a lifetime ago (The River Wild (1994), Mystic River (2003), Sleepers (1996)). I really enjoyed Kevin's woodsy lesbian vibe in White Water Summer (1987), which also starred a 16-year-old Sean Astin. I had no idea what to expect from the esoteric world of San Francisco cycle couriers in Quicksilver (1986), but I was entirely invested and genuinely entertained but Kev's clever little bike tricks.
But you know what struck me the most so far? Two films, so far apart in many ways--temporally, spiritually, thematically, qualitatively--and yet both hit me between the eyes. Footloose (1984) and You Should Have Left (2020). Don't ask me how I've never seen Footloose until now. I of course, knew of it, seen scenes, understood references in the zeitgeist, but never beheld its wonderousness until the year of our lord 2022. Terrible. I know. But DAMN did that turn out to be a massive treat. My only complaint is that there should have been even more dancing. Just make the whole movie Kevin and Chris Penn dancing. MORE DANCING.
And those 64-year-old hips still know how to move to this day, I tell you what.
You Should Have Left--truly, a claustrophobic thriller custom-made for the pandemic year-- exists to showcase how dang HAWT our man is this side of 60. Holy GAWD. This OK but mostly "meh" film is only worth watching for the well-dressed, well-mannered and studly image of elder Bacon so indelibly captured within. I also entirely identified with Amanda Seyfreid's character--a woman in her late thirties in love with/married to some genuinely hot dude a quarter of a century older. I feel ya, girl. I feel ya. I mean, look at that hair. Who could resist that hair. And those eyes. As blue and bright as they've ever been. *swoon*
Kevin's been in like 100 things, and I'm daunted by even thinking about attempting to watch most if not all of his oeuvre, but I've seen enough so far that I've determined his acting style, and decided on an apt image in my mind describing it. This has become a mini hobby of mine.
For example, Tommy Lee Jones carries his roles, hefting and bearing them with the strength and fortitude of an ox. Jeff Bridges inhabits his characters in a distinctly naturalistic manner, as if he were born into their skins. Kevin Bacon has a lighter touch than either, whether it's portraying a handsome young charmer or a conflicted child molester, he wears his roles like bespoke suits from Savile Row.
No matter the project, he has a reliable excellence that has preserved and aged him just right, infusing him with ambrosial and bright acid-sweet complexity. He's a bottle of Sauternes. Pairing well with everything. Always bringing the flavor.
Almost every film contains a toy surprise. Case in point: Atom Egoyan's Where the Truth Lies (2005), which starts off with some lovely butt shots and cheeky fun but then evolves into images I never in a million years would have predicted involving Colin Firth and that hot chick from Peep Show. Nowhere near as good as The Sweet Hereafter(1997) but notable for... reasons. Go ahead and see for yourself.
Finally, Kevin's Instagram presence is one of the best uses of the damn app known to man. He's as pure as the driven snow, with his dad jokes and guitar plucking and food prep. I learned through his little stories that he's apparently an early riser, frequently whispering to his phone because Kyra or the kids or the dogs are sleeping somewhere in the house. His passion for music is inspirational and heart-warming, and he's often playing or boppin' along to some selection of favorites he can't wait to share with followers. He and Kyra even made a beautiful and bittersweet short film during lockdown, giving us a glimpse into their sense of romance.
And he does indeed sing to his goats... and pigs and horses and dogs. And he still wears that cowboy hat on occasion.
Keep it up, Kev.
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