Certain deaths do something weird to the media mind and temperament. John Hughes, a maker of what are essentially genre slapstick films, has, by his early death the other day, become a great auteur and, as well, a saint, without anyone seeming to be remotely nosy about the strange circumstances of his life and untimely end.
At the height of his career -- he was not just one of the most commercially successful writers and directors in Hollywood but a zeitgeist phenomenon -- he drops out. Just leaves. Then, last week, at 59, walking on a Manhattan street, he falls down dead.
So, come on, what happened to the guy?
Can't anybody write a decent obit anymore?
Somewhere in here there is obviously a very good story -- a more compelling one than the one about the brilliance of Sixteen Candles.
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