Hey kids, say hallo to guest reviewer and star reporter La Donna Di Prestigio, and pay attention to what she has to say about Walter Hill’ Wagnerian comic book Streets Of Fire…

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I only just got hit over the head with a shovel with the understanding that subconsciously (or not), Streets of Fire is responsible for atleast 80% of my sentimental education. I tend to attribute the remaining 20% to Roxanne and Some Kind of Wonderful, depending on the mood. If my idea of romance is - to this day - imagining someone walking around wearing a sullen (or mopey, or brooding) expression and suddenly bursting into song trying to lure in their humble abode beautiful strangers as sullen mopey and brooding, that’s its fault. Not Romance & Cigarettes’. No.

On a side note - how cute and totally adorable were these trailers? How totally clueless were we, the viewers? In that these things were 2 and a half minutes long on average and were basically *the* movie, the whole story condensed, often with full fledged spoilers and all that jazz. Little did we knew, at the time: we could have kept our 7000 lire, or whatever the ticket cost, and waited it out until a BluRay edition came out, twenty five years later. What? No BluRay edition? Bummer.

So, we’re here, twenty five years later. I still love how this movie has it all. A desperate marketing move or just the Reagan-induced hallucinations of a whole nation, it is difficult to say. But do follow me when I point out that Streets of Fire is

- Purple Rain, with a lot more pussy

- The Warriors, with a love story

- The Rocky Horror Picture Show, with a lot less make-up (hello, Willem Defoe!)

- Gremlins, without the Gremlins

plus,

- For unknown reasons Rick Moranis seems taller for at least half of the movie (the second ever case of cinematography payola, everybody. The first being Humphrey Bogart’s in The Big Sleep. For everything in between, hell I was distracted by the Looney Tunes. Now shut up)

- This is the first lesbian flick I ever saw where lesbians are completely absent (Amy Madigan: you don’t call, you don’t write and you certainly are not preserved in carbonite. Couldn’t you just do what Diane Lane did? or Han Solo?)

- For years I believed Dan Hartman was an African-American. The real Millo Vanillo!

- And just how priceless is the evoking of Stevie Nicks throughout the movie - not just the musical numbers? Although she did write “Sorcerer”, and just the title was in retrospect a dead giveaway, Stevie seems to have inspired the costumes, the hairdos, even the Lindsay Buckingham lookalikes (yes Willem Defoe, I’m still talking to you. but also Michael Pare).

- Still speaking of soundtracks: a wall of shame for Ry Cooder. Or maybe not? Doh, there’s even Lee Hazlewood! Turns out this is an indie flick and we didn’t realize ‘til it was already too late and it infected our DNAs. Epic win, as they say.