Steve picked this one, and it's personal. He was 8 when his parents took him and his brother to see it in theaters, and he credits Beetlejuice and Gremlins as the one-two punch that turned him into a horror kid. Nic's relationship with the film is fuzzier. He saw it young but suspects the Saturday morning cartoon warped his memories, much the way the Ghostbusters cartoon convinced a generation that Slimer was a main character. Revisiting Tim Burton after covering Pee-wee's Big Adventure earlier in the run, both dads are struck by what a bigger budget ($15 million, same as Wall Street) let Burton do with practical effects, puppetry, and that unmistakable Danny Elfman score. Nic pauses to note that Danny Elfman is the most perfectly named man in show business. If his name were Craig Winchester, none of this works.

The conversation lingers on Michael Keaton, and rightly so. The makeup was largely his idea. A huge chunk of his lines were improvised. Nic calls the performance a cross between Freddy Krueger, the Heath Ledger Joker, and Ace Ventura, and honestly that tracks. There's a loving sidebar about the single PG-rated F-bomb (and accompanying crotch honk), which Nic reports his 5-year-old niece has faithfully committed to memory and recited back to her father in full. The MPAA giveth, and children taketh away.

Both dads light up over the Banana Boat Song dinner party sequence and the way it builds from confusion to pure joy, only to completely backfire as a scare tactic. Steve confesses an early crush on Winona Ryder's goth Lydia that he traces directly to the first girl he dated in high school. And a brief, pointed observation about Jeffrey Jones lands with the kind of silence that says more than the joke did. Catherine O'Hara, meanwhile, gets nothing but love. Her "indoor outhouse" line, the Deo dinner party kickoff, and the immortal "they're dead, it's a little late to be neurotic" all get their flowers.

Not everything holds up under the magnifying glass. The pacing drags in stretches. The shrunken head effect at the end is the weakest in the movie. The extras at Miss Shannon's School for Girls are, by both dads' estimation, not a single one of them under 45. But the stuff that works still works beautifully, and as Steve puts it, this is one of those movies that sticks with you so indelibly that it's just always there in the back of your mind. Six-and-a-half out of ten from the dads, and a reminder that there's still no better entry-level horror than the movies that started it all.

Both Dads came in familiar with the movie's fingerprints more than the movie itself. Steve knows the Boiler Room scenes quoting Wall Street better than any actual scene in Wall Street, and Nic, ever the CPA, paused the conversation to verify Bud Fox's tax math on a $50K salary across federal, state, city, and payroll. It checks out. Oliver Stone did his homework, even if subtlety was never on his syllabus. The dads clock Stone's sledgehammer approach early and never stop finding new examples, from Bud literally asking "who am I?" on his balcony to the foreshadowing so thick you could spread it on beef tartare, which, speaking of, Gekko serves Bud a portion roughly the size of a pot roast with an egg yolk on top. Nic didn't even think it was beef tartare because "the thing was so big."

The supporting cast gets plenty of attention. Martin Sheen plays Bud's father, and the Dads agree he's the only genuinely good person in the entire film. Daryl Hannah's Darian, Razzie winner for Worst Supporting Actress, redecorates Bud's apartment into what Nic calls "Caligula's playhouse" complete with Styrofoam Doric columns, and at one point announces her dream of producing "a line of high quality antiques," which Steve correctly identifies as possibly the dumbest business plan ever committed to screen. And then there's Gekko's toddler, sporting a pumpkin pie haircut so distracting that Nic says it looks like someone painted a kid on an egg.

The "greed is good" speech lands, Douglas's Oscar-winning glare lands harder, and a late-film detail where you can hear Bud's ice rattling because Charlie Sheen is subtly shaking with rage earns genuine admiration. But the financial schemes stack up and get harder to follow each time, and the third act collapses into a sprint. Both Dads leave with the same recommendation: if you want this story told better, go watch Boiler Room or binge Billions.

Greed may or may not be good, but "I create nothing, I own" hits different in 2026.

What follows is a spirited 90-minute argument about whether Ferris Bueller is a charming rogue or, as Nic puts it, a selfish, entitled con man running "Ferris LeVey's Day of Do What Thou Wilt." The dads agree on more than you'd expect: the parents are shockingly good people being ruthlessly exploited, Cameron Frye is the emotional core of the movie, and Ed Rooney is a man who abandoned an entire student body to stalk a teenager through the suburbs. They compare Ferris to Leonardo DiCaprio in Catch Me If You Can, note the convenient fantasy logic that lets nobody hear him when he breaks the fourth wall, and wonder why the real Abe Froman never showed up to claim his table. Steve drops a jaw-dropping Ferrari deep cut — a 1961 250 GT California sold at Pebble Beach in 2025 for $25.6 million, meaning the car in the movie is now worth more than the inflation-adjusted budget of the film itself. And yes, Ben Stein's economics lecture about the Hawley-Smoot Tariff Act hits a little different in 2026.

The parade scene becomes a full flashpoint. Nic's take: a teenager hijacking a German heritage celebration to lip-sync a Beatles cover while a marching band pretends to play along is grounds for a riot, not a standing ovation. Steve doesn't entirely disagree but has decades of goodwill banked. Cameron's poolside diving board stunt, Jeannie's clutch save at the back door, and Charlie Sheen's method-or-meth approach to looking strung out all get their due. Two dads, one LaserDisc classic, and a gap wide enough to park a kit car Ferrari in.

Both dads have history with this one, but neither watched it young enough for it to hit the way John Hughes intended. Steve saw it in high school and thought these kids' problems felt like ancient history. Nic watched it more recently with his wife and daughter and came back different. Now, rewatching it through the lens of parenthood, they find a movie that's less about being a teenager and more about surviving the adults who are supposed to be raising you. The budget was a million bucks, the cast was seven people, nobody ever leaves the school, and it returned 51.5 times its cost, making it the biggest ROI of any movie the podcast has covered. Nic is duly impressed. Steve is doing the math on how nice that library is compared to anything either of them ever set foot in.

The real surprise is Bender. Steve comes in ready to be annoyed and walks out calling him the best character in the movie. Not just the troublemaker, but the emotional engine of the whole thing, a kid with terrifying emotional intelligence and a cigar burn on his arm from a father he can only talk about in impressions. The Vernon-Bender supply closet scene gets a full breakdown, with both dads noting the exact moment each character realizes they went too far. Andy's confession about Larry Lester lands even harder as parents. And Brian's near-whispered admission about the flare gun and the unbearable weight of a B average nearly breaks Steve, who says he almost cried watching it this time around, thinking not about his own childhood but about the silences between sentences where kids hide what they're really feeling.

There are lunches ranked, Canadian girlfriends invoked, and the eternal question of who flicks a perfectly good roach in 1984 suburban Illinois. But underneath all the Moliere-pumps-my-nads quotables, this one lands where it counts.

Sincerely yours, the Dads.

Steve has seen Ghostbusters well over a hundred times. He watched it on LaserDisc as a four-year-old, weekly through high school and college, and still has an autographed photo of Murray, Aykroyd, and Ramis hanging on his wall. Nic's history is a little more modest: he saw it young, lost track of it in the no-VCR, no-cable wilderness of his childhood, and circled back in high school when everybody was passing tapes around and quoting lines at each other. Both dads came in hot for this one, and the conversation has the giddy energy of two people who know they're about to have a really good time.

They dig into everything that makes the movie tick: how the practical effects hold up spectacularly because the ghosts actually affect the real world around them (proton blasts carve burning gashes in walls, Slimer eats real food off real plates), why Murray and Aykroyd are both operating at absolute peak here, and the way Dan Aykroyd's fast-talking pseudo-science sounds so confident you just nod along like he was a guy who walked into a building holding a clipboard. There's a deep appreciation for Ray Stantz's dangling cigarette, the eggs frying on Dana's countertop, and the fact that a concert cellist apparently makes enough to afford a corner penthouse on Central Park West. Nic, wearing his CPA hat, is particularly horrified by Louis Tully cheerfully broadcasting his clients' financial details at his own party, a fireable offense dressed up as Rick Moranis being delightful.

The Huey Lewis plagiarism saga gets a full airing, including the detail that Ivan Reitman accidentally planted the song in Ray Parker Jr.'s brain by leaving it as a temp track in early footage. Steve mounts a passionate defense of the "Dr. Venkman, not Mr. Venkman" principle, rooted firmly in being married to a doctor. And there's a solid minute spent reckoning with the fact that Dan Aykroyd apparently wrote himself a ghost blowjob into a PG movie, which is a power move that transcends decades. The dads land firmly on the same side of this one: Ghostbusters holds up, the jokes still hit, the effects (minus one rough patch with the running gargoyles) still work, and the whole thing ends exactly when it should, with marshmallow raining from the sky and Louis Tully asking who does your taxes.

What they found is a cheerfully absurd 90-minute romp about two beer-obsessed brothers who stumble into a Hamlet-flavored murder conspiracy involving mind-control lager, a synthesizer-wielding villain with unexplained superhuman strength, an asylum full of hockey-playing inmates in Stormtrooper gear, and a ghost communicating through an arcade cabinet. Max von Sydow plays Brewmeister Smith with the intensity of a man who negotiated ass-kicking privileges into his contract. There's a lawyer who does full-contact karate on a gaggle of reporters. There's a dog named Hosehead who, without any prior foreshadowing whatsoever, flies. The currency system runs entirely on donuts and loose beer. And the movie holds the distinction of being the first film on the show that actually lost money at the box office, pulling in just $1.9 million against a $4 million budget, which prompts Nic to compare it to The Velvet Underground: nobody saw it, but everyone who did started a movie podcast.

Both dads agree this is the clear ancestor of Wayne's World and wish the film had pulled in more SCTV talent for cameos. They rediscover the slang gem they somehow missed as kids: calling everything "beauty." And while the McKenzie brothers' delivery starts to wear a little thin by the final act, the affection is real. Happy 50th, hosers. Beauty episode, eh.

The conversation zeroes in on the film's surprisingly nuanced handling of its teenage characters. Steve highlights Amy Heckerling's direction of Stacy's first sexual experience as deliberately non-exploitative, noting the dissociative camera work that centers Stacy's discomfort rather than serving up male-gaze titillation. Both Dads appreciate that the film treats abortion matter-of-factly, especially given how close it was to Roe v. Wade. They dissect Mike Damone's "proto-pickup artist" advice to Mark Ratner, agreeing some of it is genuinely useful while the rest is manipulative garbage. Nic coins Damone's vibe as "unshakable dork confidence," and both Dads land on a nuanced read of his betrayal of Rat: Stacy has her own autonomy and chose Damone, but Damone still crossed the line by inviting himself inside. Nic pulls out the film's best hidden joke, Damone's handwritten expense ledger listing "abortion, $75" alongside a tentative Rod Stewart ticket purchase.

Sean Penn's Spicoli remains the film's secret weapon, from "no shirt, no shoes, no dice" to ordering pizza directly to Mr. Hand's classroom. The Dads marvel at how Penn's performance walks the line between stoner savant and genuine comedic genius, wondering if 1982 audiences could have predicted the Oscar-caliber career ahead. Steve and Nic both land in similar territory on the film overall: Steve calls it a solid 80s time capsule that moves fast and still feels relevant in the underlying teenage chaos, while Nic admits the characters are more interesting than the plot, noting the comedy doesn't land quite as hard as memory suggests. Both agree it's a breezy, enjoyable rewatch, even if neither is rushing back for another round anytime soon.

From the jump, the Dads lock onto what makes this movie tick: it's a vibe. Nic falls hard for the Tangerine Dream synth score and moody nighttime visuals, calling it essential to the film's atmosphere. Steve? He's ready to throw the score out a window. He compares it unfavorably to Vangelis's work on Blade Runner, finding Tangerine Dream's sound harsh and intrusive where Vangelis brought texture and depth. The music sits on top of the movie rather than underneath it, he argues, actively pulling him out of scenes. Meanwhile, James Caan's Chicago accent becomes a flashpoint. Steve hears pure cartoon, something out of a Bill Swerski sketch, while Nic mounts a defense: maybe a guy raised in the foster system and incarcerated most of his life just emerges with a generic tough guy voice. The Dads also spend considerable time marveling at Caan's character pulling out a literal vision board during a diner scene to woo Tuesday Weld, a collage so pristine they can't figure out how it was physically produced in 1981.

The running jokes pile up: diamonds stored in loose paper wraps instead of proper envelopes, money measured in inches, and the film's complete failure to signal when Frank has traveled from Chicago to Los Angeles. Nic appreciates the professional heist details and Frank's meticulous code, while Steve remains unmoved by a protagonist who, by the big job, is basically having his welding helmet put on for him like a princess. When Frank torches his own life in the final act, the Dads wrestle with whether the movie earns that moment or just speeds through it. Either way, Thief proves there's always something to dig into, even when the Dads aren't seeing eye to eye.

The Dads marvel at the stunt casting that put four dramatic actors into their first-ever comedic roles: Leslie Nielsen, Robert Stack, Lloyd Bridges (whose sons Jeff and Beau talked him into it), and Peter Graves. They dig into the gags that still land perfectly, from the white zone/red zone airport announcement bickering (performed by the actual married couple who did LAX announcements) to the Mayo Clinic doctor with mayonnaise jars behind him and a beating heart bouncing around his desk. The smoking ticket bit, the drinking problem visual gag, the line of passengers waiting to slap the hysterical woman with increasingly dangerous weapons, "We have clearance, Clarence. Roger, Roger. What's our vector, Victor?"—all rock solid forty-five years later. They also appreciate the details, like how the actress being slapped suggested making that line of attackers longer, which turned a good joke into an iconic one.

But the Dads also wrestle with what hasn't aged well, from Captain Oveur's deeply uncomfortable cockpit conversation with young Joey to the Peace Corps basketball sequence that lands with a thud in 2026. Steve frames it this way: 1934's It Happened One Night is as far from Airplane! as Airplane! is from today, which helps explain why some jokes feel like artifacts from another era. Still, this is a movie where the sum of its parts outweighs the whole, a gag-a-second comedy that launched Leslie Nielsen's second act and taught a generation that deadpan delivery of absurd lines is an art form.

The villain situation sparks some heated discussion. Bennett, played by Vernon Wells, shows up looking like "Freddie Mercury in a crocheted chainmail vest" with fingerless gloves and a leather jacket, and Steve cannot get over how unintimidating he is. He's soft in the middle, clearly obsessed with Matrix in a way that reads more like a scorned ex-lover than a mortal enemy, and the Dads agree there's no counterbalance to Arnold's superhuman hero. Then there's Sully, a five-foot-two sleazeball in an oversized David Byrne suit who delivers increasingly disgusting one-liners until Arnold dangles him off a cliff and delivers the immortal "Remember when I said I'd kill you last? I lied." The Dads also geek out over recognizing the Beverly Hills Cop mansion, Bill Paxton's early cameo as a Coast Guard radar guy, and the baffling amount of steel drum in a movie set entirely in Los Angeles.

The final assault on the compound is where Commando truly earns its reputation: Arnold kills the same seven stunt guys multiple times each, throws saw blades through skulls, and fires a machine gun while standing completely exposed as hundreds of bullets somehow miss him entirely. The Dads catch action figures on visible stands during explosion shots and marvel at a body count so absurd it defies mathematics. It's loud, ridiculous, and exactly what Nic promised: pure, uncut Arnie at his most gloriously over-the-top.

Jamie Lee Curtis absolutely steals the show, and the Dads are here for it. Her legendary hotel room striptease gets the extended appreciation it deserves, with Steve and Nic marveling at her physical comedy chops and the sheer commitment of her performance. The dance is awkward and sexy and hilarious all at once, right down to her ankle buckling in those heels. Bill Paxton's sleazy used car salesman Simon earns equal time, spinning tales about being the mystery spy from the hotel shootout while eating a hot dog and declaring that "the 'Vette gets 'em wet." The Dads debate the impossibility of fast-forwarding and rewinding cassette tapes to precise dialogue cues and agree it's somehow less believable than anything involving nuclear warheads.

Then there are the Harrier jets. Steve loved Harriers as a kid, and this movie delivers them in full glory for the entire third act, from bridge pursuits to Arnold blasting out an entire floor of a Miami skyscraper. A pelican tips a truck off a bridge. Jamie Lee Curtis beats Tia Carrere senseless with a champagne bottle that refuses to break. Dana steals the detonator key despite having zero spy training. It's gateway Arnie at his absolute peak, surrounded by James Cameron's bulletproof blockbuster instincts and a cast firing on all cylinders.

The Dads walk through the dystopian premise of a company that will implant fake vacation memories directly into your brain, and immediately spiral into how psychotically insane the "ego trip" upgrade sounds. Why would anyone want to believe they were a secret agent and then just wake up and go back to jackhammering? The cognitive dissonance alone would destroy you. Nic's wife gets a solid moment when the nail-painting receptionist appears on screen with her instant-color-change manicure tech, prompting a frustrated "son of a bitch!" from the couch. They appreciate the Verhoeven commentary on casting Schwarzenegger as a quote-unquote regular guy, acknowledge that Sharon Stone is acting her face off while playing a character who is also acting her face off, and give proper respect to the escalator shootout, the human shield that got used for way too long, and Johnny Cab's inexplicable decision to kamikaze itself into a wall over an unpaid fare.

The conversation inevitably lands on three boobs, Kuato's weird little voice, the "see you at the party" callback, and the big question: is any of this real? Steve's now convinced the whole thing is an ego trip and Quaid is a lobotomized vegetable, while Nic figures he just wakes up disappointed and goes back to his crappy life married to peak Sharon Stone. Either way, blue sky on Mars was a new one.

The Dads marvel at the 72 on-screen deaths during the guerrilla camp assault, Blaine's legendary "I ain't got time to bleed" followed by Poncho's perfect reaction face, and the sheer gratuity of watching Arnold bend vines over his shoulders while making a bow and arrow. They note that Carl Weathers apparently had to take his shirt off just to help pull a rope, which tracks. Nic's wife gets a few good lines in, observing that there's "not a lot of dialogue, just a lot of big puss jokes" and that the unmasked Predator has "a Dark Crystal-ass looking face." The Dads dig into the film's clever creature design, the way the Predator adapts its tactics based on circumstance, and the deeply satisfying payoff of Billy's laugh getting replayed in the alien's dying moments as it finally gets the joke.

They wrap by marveling at the fact that this movie stars two future governors, that the Predator suit actor also played Harry in Harry and the Hendersons, and that 80s action movies just hit different than anything made since. If it bleeds, we can kill it, and if it's Predator, it absolutely rules.

Ah yes, the robot. The dads cannot get over the fact that Rocky gifts his brother-in-law Paulie a talking robot servant for his birthday instead of the sports car he wanted. This is a Season 7 of ALF type decision, Nic notes, a creative choice that belongs in no franchise. Meanwhile, Rocky gives his wife Adrian a wraparound watch and a deeply unsettling anniversary cake featuring bride-and-groom figurines in boxing gloves. The implications are not great. Carl Weathers, doing all the heavy lifting as Apollo Creed, gets a full James Brown concert before getting beaten to death in an exhibition match while Rocky holds the towel and does nothing. The Dads point out, correctly, that Rocky is the villain of his own movie: a man who let his best friend die, then abandoned his family on Christmas to fight in Soviet Russia because he needed to avenge a guy he clearly loved more than his wife.

It's loud, sweaty, deeply stupid, and somehow still kind of fun if you treat it like the world's most expensive music video compilation.

Steve and Nic dig into everything that makes this movie work, from the brilliant "fists with your toes" setup that justifies our hero's shoeless chaos to Alan Rickman's ludicrously good turn as the gentleman criminal Hans Gruber. They obsess over Theo's sports commentary running gag, debate whether Notre Dame would really be playing USC on Christmas Eve, and unanimously agree that Ellis is the most perfectly hateable 80s cocaine douchebag ever committed to film. "Hans, bubbe, I'm your white knight" gets the appreciation it deserves, as does the fact that this movie basically invented the MP5 as the standard issue bad guy weapon for the next decade. There's some pointed commentary about Al Powell's tragic backstory being framed a little too sympathetically, and plenty of love for Argyle living his best life in the parking garage while everything above him descends into absolute mayhem.

The dads also celebrate the details that make rewatches so rewarding: the samurai armor in the vault, the "no more table" and "no bullets" one-liners that deserve their own remix, the way Holly knows John's still alive because only he could drive someone as unhinged as Karl, and the sheer audacity of a movie that finds time for titty distractions and a "Helsinki Syndrome" joke while blowing up an armored SWAT vehicle with a floor-mounted rocket launcher. When a movie this influential is also this endlessly quotable and fun, you just watch it every December like the Christmas tradition it absolutely is.

The conversation turns to the many adults who should have called the cops but didn't. The grocery store clerk, the pizza delivery boy, the town Santa, Old Man Marley. An entire village conspired, through sheer negligence, to let an eight-year-old nearly get killed by burglars. Speaking of those burglars, the dads conduct a thorough injury audit, tallying up blowtorched scalps, paint cans to the face, BB gun shots to sensitive areas, and the tar situation that led to Marv's barefoot ornament stomp. They agree that Daniel Stern's tarantula scream is the greatest man-scream of the decade, possibly ever, and praise the film's surprising physical comedy chops from both Stern and an against-type Joe Pesci. Nic gives particular love to John Candy's brief but perfect turn as the pushy polka bandleader, calling it the detail that elevates the whole thing.

It's a warm, chaotic, deeply 90s time capsule that somehow makes you feel cozy even while children commit felonies and criminals sustain injuries that would kill lesser men.

The dads dig into the film's hostile charm: the Scandinavian nightmare dinner with lit candle wreaths and Middle Earth cuisine, the volunteer cops who accidentally record It's a Wonderful Life over their only evidence, and the blackmailing military school kid who might be the most competent person in the whole movie. They marvel at Judy Davis absolutely dominating every scene she's in, holding the screen like a stage actress while delivering ice-cold lines about garnish and corpses. Steve calls out Kevin Spacey's presence with the requisite asterisk, but acknowledges the man is undeniably good here, especially in the present-opening scene where he finally tells his mother to shut the fuck up and offers to buy her a cross she can nail herself to. Nic notes his frustration with the wacky escalation format and wishes for more Leary ranting, but appreciates the Christmas bones of the thing.

The dads align on Judy Davis as the MVP, debate the ethics of therapists attending family dinners, and bond over the universal experience of stopping for food before arriving at a relative's house because you know the situation will be weird.

A holiday hostage comedy where the gunman is somehow the most reasonable person at the table.

The conversation veers into fond territory when they dig into the Duke brothers as villains, the satisfying mechanics of the commodity exchange scheme (which they absolutely do not fully understand), and why this movie feels like it belongs to a different era of studio filmmaking. There's genuine affection here for the craft, the pacing, the way the screenplay threads everything together, and how Landis directs it all with confidence. They also spend quality time on Denholm Elliott and the supporting cast, appreciating how stacked this thing is with talent. The nostalgia runs deep, but so does the respect for what the movie pulls off, even when it's being completely ridiculous.

They wrestle with the movie's rougher edges, the stuff that wouldn't fly today, and somehow land on the idea that Trading Places is both a perfect time capsule and a genuinely smart comedy about class and capitalism wrapped in an absolutely unhinged Christmas caper. It's dumb. It's brilliant. It's Trading Places, and it still works.

The conversation careens through John Travolta's "dead son revenge plot," the infamous peach-eating scene, speedboat terrorism, and a prison that somehow operates like a gladiatorial death arena with absolutely zero oversight. They marvel at Cage's face doing all the heavy lifting, debate whether the movie is too long, and try to unpack why the film ends with what might charitably be called "problematic child acquisition." The dads also wrestle with the tonal whiplash of a movie that's simultaneously a gonzo action spectacle and a deeply weird meditation on identity, family, and face-touching. They can't decide if it's brilliant or dumb, so they settle on both.

It's Cage at his unhinged best, Woo at his most operatic, and two dads at peak "we need to talk about this" energy.

What follows is an affectionate roast of the movie’s cartoon logic and impeccable visual gags: babies stacked like zombies, Goodman and Forsythe crawling out of the ground like feral worms, and the unforgettable phrase “a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase.” The dads laugh over the prison group therapy session, note the early signs of Coenisms like stilted yet poetic dialogue, and bond over how these “young, hungry” filmmakers brought so much style to every scene—even the dirty laundry is artfully tossed. Ed’s deadpan fury, Hi’s Playboy panic, and the disaster children of Frances McDormand’s clan all get loving shoutouts in a film that feels like Looney Tunes grew up and got a wife.

By the time they’re comparing diaper duty to Shawshank and Ace Ventura’s rhino scene, it’s clear Raising Arizona delivers exactly what Cagevember needed: a riotous left turn. A little sweet, a lot strange, and unmistakably Coen, this movie is pure chaos with a heart of gold.

From there they ride the movie’s big set pieces: the nonlethal heist of those VX rockets, the nerve-jangling glass beads that make every stumble feel fatal, and the satisfying nerd-spy teamwork of yanking guidance chips to turn doomsday into splashdown. The dads love the production design around the missiles, then crack up at the underground “Big Thunder Mountain Railroad” chaos that arrives like a theme-park left turn, because of course it does. They also enjoy the movie’s early lab vignette that introduces Goodspeed as a biochemist in over his head, which sets the tone for the scientist-meets-spy rhythm that powers the middle stretch. It’s a lot, it’s loud, and it’s fun.

They linger on Ed Harris’s gravitas and the way his final choices complicate the villain label, then savor the infamous Rocket Man gag, which they admit is ridiculous and still completely unforgettable. The conversation keeps that late-night, two-dads cadence: a little nostalgia, a little eye roll, and a lot of affection for a movie that plays like a recruitment ad and a buddy comedy at the same time. On the scale of Cage chaos, the dads clock this as the “believable” end of the spectrum while still grinning like teenagers who just snuck into an R-rated show. The Rock remains a big, brawny, spectacle of Bay and The Bay that turns nonsense into pure Saturday-night joy.

As the plane fills up with larger-than-life convicts, the dads track every glorious one-liner and explosion with equal parts admiration and disbelief. Nic admits he’d probably root for Cyrus the Virus in real life, while Steve argues that John Cusack looks like he wandered in from a rom-com and never found the exit. The dads go deep on the logic (or lack thereof) of the Las Vegas crash landing and how somehow, against all odds, this ridiculous movie makes them feel something by the end.

Between digressions about mid-90s soundtracks, Nic’s obsession with the stuffed bunny, and Steve’s theory that every Michael Bay wannabe was taking notes, the episode becomes a love letter to the last great age of dumb spectacle. It’s big, loud, sentimental, and just smart enough to know it’s stupid.

Con Air is the kind of movie that soars precisely because it never should have gotten off the ground.

Halloween III: Season of the Witch is the Michael-Myers-less oddball of the franchise, and both dads went into it as first-timers—Steve because he wanted to finally see what the fuss was about, and Nic because, confession time, this is his first Halloween movie. Ever. And no, the Love Guru doesn’t count. What they got was a synth-heavy, jack-o’-lantern-lit fever dream about murderous masks, ancient pagan sacrifices, and android assassins who self-immolate like it’s their job. (Because it is.)

Tom Atkins stars as Dr. Dan “Deadbeat Daddy” Challis, an aggressively unconvincing heartthrob with a mustache that actively subtracts charisma. He stumbles into a plot involving Stonehenge, evil corporations, and masks that melt children’s faces into snake pits—like you do. Meanwhile, a jingle that will haunt your dreams (“Eight more days ‘til Halloween, Silver Shamrock!”) plays on loop enough times to qualify as psychological warfare. Ellie, the hot daughter of a dead toy store owner, teams up with Dr. Dan for an investigation-slash-motel-stay that rapidly turns into softcore, plot-free chaos.

There’s no Michael Myers, but there’s a ton of Carpenter synth, an uncomfortable amount of middle-aged sleaze, and the kind of practical effects that make you both gag and applaud. Is it good? Not really. Is it memorable? Oh hell yes. And hey, it made money. Just not after people realized they got bait-and-switched out of a slasher icon and into an unhinged anti-capitalist druid conspiracy thriller.

Shocktoberfest goes out with a bang (literally—RIP gasoline android guy), and the dads are left confused, intrigued, and lowkey obsessed. Happy Halloween indeed, Silver Shamrock. You weird little freak.

They zero in on how perfect the casting is. Steve can’t stop praising Jodie Foster’s control and vulnerability, while Nic’s in awe of how Anthony Hopkins turns charm into a weapon. The dads geek out over the camera work — those unblinking close-ups that feel like confessions — and debate whether Lecter is terrifying because he’s monstrous or because he’s right about everything. They also have fun with the details: the night-vision sequence that still makes Steve squirm, the “quid pro quo” exchange that somehow feels flirtatious, and Buffalo Bill’s dance that launched a thousand bad impressions. Somewhere between fascination and revulsion, they admit they can’t look away.

The episode hits that sweet spot between film-school analysis and pure dad awe, where admiration meets discomfort and both hosts can’t decide who’s scarier — Lecter or the system that bred him. It’s tense, funny, and full of those “how did this ever win Best Picture?” moments that only 90s Hollywood could produce. The Silence of the Lambs remains chilling, brilliant, and disturbingly human, and the dads savor every bite.

They revel in how the movie forces you to play detective right alongside the crew at Outpost 31. Steve can’t stop grinning over the slow escalation of distrust, while Nic fixates on how often the film makes you second-guess who’s even human. They talk about the practical effects that somehow still hold up, the perfect setup of that blood test scene, and how Russell’s MacReady feels like the last guy you’d want in charge — and yet, maybe the only one who could survive it. They even get sidetracked unpacking the film’s pacing, that eerie quiet before the chaos, and how Carpenter lets the camera linger just long enough to make you sweat.

By the end, the dads are equal parts chilled and impressed, laughing about how this “weird little alien movie” somehow turns into a masterclass in tension. It’s a tight, talky, brutally effective film that earns every ounce of its reputation. For two dads who’ve seen their share of horror, The Thing still got under their skin — and maybe stayed there.

They dig into the movie’s shifting realities, grimy 1970s New York subways, and a post-war trauma story that’s both deeply human and completely unhinged. Steve’s delight at discovering Kyle Gass of Tenacious D buried in the credits gives way to a full-on Macaulay Culkin conspiracy rant, while Nic admits he still doesn’t know what’s real by the end. There’s appreciation for Tim Robbins’ haunted performance, disgust at the hospital-from-hell sequence, and genuine awe for how much this movie inspired later horror aesthetics like Silent Hill. When Danny Aiello shows up to literally adjust Jacob’s spine and his soul, the dads realize they might be watching the most disturbing wellness commercial ever filmed.

The result is an episode that feels like one long fever dream, equal parts philosophical and filthy. Between the dad jokes, theology tangents, and mild PTSD, this one nails what Shocktoberfest is all about: horror that sticks to your ribs. It’s not fun, it’s not cozy, but it’s unforgettable—like watching your own nightmares on VHS at 2 a.m.

The conversation digs into what made this film revolutionary: the dream logic that feels genuinely universal, those stairs that won't let you run, the walls pushing through like fabric, the way reality keeps slipping. They geek out over the practical effects—that rotating room murder, the bed eruption requiring more blood than exists in the human body, all on a shoestring $1.8 million budget that somehow returned 31 times its cost. Steve points out the moral undertones running through these slashers, the unspoken rules about who survives. They both appreciate Heather Langenkamp's Nancy as a genuinely smart protagonist who figures out the rules and actually tries tactical solutions, even if Johnny Depp's Glenn keeps falling asleep on the job. The hosts also explore the darker subtext: a town that collectively committed vigilante justice, then buried the truth, leaving their kids vulnerable to supernatural blowback.

This is classic 2 Dads territory—two guys who can appreciate both the craftsmanship and the cheese, who know these films cold but still get a kick out of revisiting them. They're here for the crop tops on dudes, the talking watches, the priest who absolutely roasts a dead teenager at his own funeral. It's a love letter to the movie that made an entire generation afraid to sleep, delivered by two dads who clearly never outgrew it.

Steve and Nic explore how Burton's low-budget magic creates an entire enchanted world around Pee-wee, from the Rube Goldberg breakfast machine to the secret bike garage to Large Marge's claymation face transformation. They discuss the film's cartoon logic and how it balances genuine childlike wonder with sophisticated filmmaking techniques, particularly praising Danny Elfman's whimsical score that perfectly complements Burton's dark-edged fantasy aesthetic. The hosts dive into memorable set pieces like the "Tequila!" dance at the biker bar, the studio chase sequence reminiscent of Blazing Saddles, and how the film essentially functions as a feature-length road trip through Tim Burton's imagination.

The conversation touches on everything from the film's surprising emotional sincerity (everyone genuinely likes Pee-wee despite his weirdness) to Paul Reubens' later controversies and unfair treatment by the media, plus whether Pee-wee's bike was actually cool or just parent-friendly marketing. Both hosts admit they went into the rewatch with low expectations but came away genuinely charmed by a film that proves Burton was already a master of absurdist storytelling and visual invention in his very first feature.

Steve and Nic dive deep into what makes Farley such a force of nature on screen. They discuss his unique brand of "Lenny from Of Mice and Men" physicality mixed with genuine sweetness, and how the film was deliberately built around showcasing his talents. The hosts particularly love the chemistry between Farley and Brian Dennehy as father and son, noting how Big Tom's unconditional love for Tommy gives the character the confidence to bumble through life with infectious enthusiasm. They also break down the classic Farley-Spade dynamic, from the guarantee speech that shows Tommy finally finding his sales groove to David Spade's perfectly pitched reactions during Tommy's most chaotic moments.

The conversation covers everything from the film's structural issues (a Rob Lowe villain plot that feels underdeveloped) to its surprising emotional restraint around Big Tom's death, plus plenty of tangents about 90s nostalgia, questionable music choices, and why every car in a road trip movie is doomed. By the end, both hosts wrestle with how to rate a film that delivers undeniable Farley magic wrapped in a less-than-perfect package that still holds genuine nostalgic power.

The guys break down what makes this remake so effective: De Niro's unhinged yet articulate performance that subverts every expectation of what a violent criminal should look like, the suffocating Hitchcockian atmosphere Scorsese creates from the opening credits, and powerhouse supporting work from Nick Nolte, Jessica Lange, and especially Juliette Lewis in her Oscar-nominated turn. Nic marvels at the film's ability to balance genuine terror with moments of dark comedy (that Mrs. Doubtfire disguise), while Steve geeks out over the legal cat-and-mouse game and Joe Don Baker's scene-stealing private investigator who just wants someone to feel "squirrely."

Both dads recognize Cape Fear as a masterclass in sustained tension that works both as edge-of-your-seat thriller and disturbing meditation on justice, revenge, and family trauma. From leopard-print Speedos to speaking in tongues during a biblical storm finale, Scorsese delivers something that's simultaneously exploitation and art house. It's terrifying, it's brilliantly crafted, and it'll make you think twice about every bump in the night.

The guys dive deep into what makes this fake documentary feel so real: the pitch-perfect British accents, the seamless blend of scripted songs and improvised dialogue, and how Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer created fully realized characters with genuine friendship and history. They marvel at the technical difficulty of switching between singing and speaking in different accents, while geeking out over the film's influence on everything from Best in Show to Pop Star: Never Stop Never Stopping. They trade favorite moments from Nigel's miniature Stonehenge disaster to Derek's foil-wrapped airport security situation.

Both dads recognize This Is Spinal Tap as essential viewing that created an entire comedy subgenre while remaining genuinely funny decades later. From "none more black" album covers to the fine line between clever and stupid, Reiner and crew built something that works both as brilliant parody and oddly touching portrait of artistic friendship. It's short, it's smart, and it rocks.

Steve admits this is one of those movies he loves "maybe more than it deserves," putting it alongside Summer Rental and UHF, films that hit different when nostalgia's involved. Kansas farm boy Brantley arrives in gritty 80s New York only to have his first job disappear in a hostile takeover. Enter distant Uncle Howard, CEO of Pemrose Corporation, who gives him a mailroom gig after Brantley's classic "believe in yourself" speech.

Peak 80s wish fulfillment follows as Brantley discovers an empty executive office and promotes himself to Carlton Whitfield, changing clothes in elevators while juggling identities. The hosts dive into Helen Slater's sarcastic Christie, the unhinged sex comedy involving Margaret Whitton's Vera, and bizarre food choices from all-night bagel bars to plates of raw vegetables that look "like AI-generated California cuisine."

A fascinating time capsule of 80s corporate fantasy and Michael J. Fox at his most charming.

Set over one day in South Central LA, Friday follows Craig (Ice Cube) after he gets fired and spends the day on his porch with best friend Smokey (Chris Tucker), who's got a serious problem. Smokey's been smoking Big Worm's weed instead of selling it, and now they owe $200 by 10 o'clock or they're both dead. What starts as a lazy Friday quickly becomes a neighborhood adventure featuring crackhead Ezel, neighborhood bully Deebo, and a cast of characters that feel like real people living real lives.

The guys celebrate how Friday broke new ground as the first comedy actually set in the hood, treating it as a normal place where families live rather than just a backdrop for violence. Steve and Nic geek out over John Witherspoon's legendary bathroom scenes, DJ Pooh's hilarious Red, and Chris Tucker's shoulder twitch that still makes them laugh every single time.

They also dig into the film's incredible quotability, noting how lines like "you got knocked the f*** out" and "that's my pleasure" have become part of standard American English. Steve admits the movie suffers slightly from Anchorman syndrome where the source material gets blamed for annoying quoters, but both agree this holds up as brilliant character-driven comedy that launched Ice Cube's screenwriting career and put Chris Tucker on the map.

This isn't your typical alien invasion movie. They Live follows a nameless drifter who stumbles into downtown LA looking for work and discovers that subliminal messages are everywhere and wealthy elites are actually skull-faced aliens in disguise. Armed with truth-revealing sunglasses from a resistance movement, our everyman hero goes from construction worker to one-man alien-fighting machine faster than you can say "I came here to chew bubblegum and kick ass."

The guys dive deep into what makes this work: Carpenter's signature synth score, the brilliant black-and-white "alien vision" sequences, and Piper's surprisingly solid acting chops. Steve argues the movie feels more like an incredible premise than a fully realized story, with too much world-building and not enough plot. Nic geeks out over the wrestling choreography in that legendarily long five-minute alley fight between Piper and Keith David.

Both dads recognize They Live as essential viewing. From the "Obey" imagery to that bubblegum one-liner, Carpenter created something genuinely unique that still sparks conversations about media manipulation and class warfare decades later.

Steve and Nic go all in on what makes this movie so special. From the absurdly good creature effects to the razor-sharp satire hiding behind every “Service guarantees citizenship” speech, it’s a film that knows exactly what it’s doing — even if you didn’t the first time you watched it. They talk horny high school drama, military fashion choices, Neil Patrick Harris in psychic Nazi drag, and why this movie hits different as an adult.

There’s real admiration here for Verhoeven’s chaos: how he weaponizes tone, aesthetics, and cast-of-the-week TV energy to deliver something way smarter than it first appears.

Is it a masterpiece? A mess? A misunderstood classic? This episode makes the case: it’s all of the above — and it rules.

Steve and Nic break down what makes this one still land after all these years: the rapid-fire jokes, the perfectly straight-faced delivery, and the way Nielsen turns bumbling incompetence into comedic gold. They call out favorite sight gags, marvel at the pacing (there’s a lot packed into 85 minutes), and try to explain just how funny it is to watch O.J. Simpson get destroyed by every inanimate object known to man.

From romantic montages set to Herman's Hermits, to Queen Elizabeth getting attacked at a baseball game, this movie doesn’t just spoof cop dramas — it goes full cartoon, and the dads are absolutely here for it.

It’s dumb. It’s brilliant. Sure, it might be 50/50 that you don’t laugh at least once during this episode… but there's only a 10% chance of that.

Steve and Nic dive into why this movie still hits like a 400-yard drive — from Sandler’s chaotic energy to the endlessly quotable one-liners (“The price is wrong…”). There’s love for Carl Weathers’ surprisingly heartfelt turn as Chubbs, Christopher McDonald’s smarmy villainy as Shooter McGavin, and of course, the greatest Bob Barker cameo in cinema history.

The dads also reflect on Happy Gilmore as a time capsule of late-’90s comedy: goofy, loud, oddly sweet, and somehow still iconic after all these years.

So yeah — it’s dumb. It’s delightful. And it’s the only golf movie where the hero fights a clown, a crocodile, and a senior citizen… and wins.

Steve and Nic dig into the ultimate ‘80s fantasy: blowing through absurd amounts of cash on goofy schemes, doomed business ventures, and random acts of kindness, all while dodging every freeloading scam artist in New York. There’s love for Pryor’s laid-back charm, John Candy’s goofy loyalty, and that classic theme of “more money, more problems” with just enough slapstick to keep it light.

The dads swap what-they’d-do scenarios (turns out, blowing money is harder than it sounds), laugh at the dated politics, and agree this is the kind of cable re-run that feels like a warm, silly weekend time capsule.

It’s pure ‘80s excess — and sometimes, watching a good guy try to lose on purpose is the biggest win.

Steve and Nic trade favorite set pieces: the Venetian catacombs, that tank chase, the invisible bridge, and that whip-smack patented Indiana Jones punch sound. There’s genuine love for how director Steven Spielberg balances goofy dad jokes with big action moments, and a warm wave of nostalgia for when practical effects and real stunt work made adventures feel real.

Maps, traps, grails, and one very awkward Zeppelin... this one’s a reminder that sometimes you really do want your heroes to choose wisely.

Steve and Nic break down the movie’s unique ‘90s charm: the laid-back heist vibe, paranoia about Big Brother, and the sheer delight of watching middle-aged men solve puzzles with dial-up modems and dry one-liners. There’s love for the cast’s chemistry, a comparison of the crew to the A-Team, and just enough talk about obsolete tech to make you miss floppy disks.

Is Sneakers the best hacking movie that isn’t really about hacking? Or just the coolest anti-corporate comedy you forgot existed? Either way, the dads crack the code on why it still works three decades later.

Steve and Nic break down this movie’s wild tone — equal parts shoot-’em-up and send-up — while tackling the big questions: Is Stallone actually funny in this? Was Snipes having too much fun? And seriously, what’s the deal with the three seashells? There’s love for Sandra Bullock’s perky awkwardness, retro-futuristic tech like the “Verbal Morality Statute,” and a lot of appreciation for how Demolition Man predicts (and mocks) the sanitized future we maybe already live in.

It’s weird. It’s loud. It’s smarter than it looks. And it’s definitely not a Schwarzenegger Library kind of movie — or is it?

Steve and Nic dig into the film’s wild legacy: the visual effects that still hold up, the moral core beneath the explosions, and the way Cameron turns a popcorn blockbuster into a dark meditation on fate and free will. There’s appreciation for Robert Patrick’s terrifying T-1000, debate over young John Connor’s slang-heavy dialogue, and the realization that even with all its bombast, this thing has feelings.

It’s time travel, truck chases, mother-son bonding, and just enough early-90s tech anxiety to make you question your microwave. Hasta la vista? More like: see you again and again — this one’s a classic.

Steve and Nic dig into what makes this offbeat comedy work: Chase’s one-of-a-kind rhythm, the script’s tangled noir-lite plot, and the way the film somehow balances slapstick with cynicism. There’s debate over which of Fletch’s aliases is the most unhinged, plenty of love for Harold Faltermeyer’s synthy score, and a real-time reckoning with how not undercover Fletch actually is.

Is this a relic of its time or a sly, still-rewatchable gem? Either way, it’s vintage Chase: full of one-liners, disguises, and a complete disregard for journalistic ethics.

We break down Murphy’s all-star multi-role performance, celebrate Arsenio Hall’s unmatched sidekick energy, and revisit the film’s unforgettable supporting characters, from barbershop philosophers to soul crooners and slippery corporate knockoffs. There’s discussion about which jokes still land, what’s aged a bit weirdly, and how this movie manages to mix rom-com sincerity with full-blown sketch comedy chaos.

Is it one of the all-time great comedies? We think so. Just remember: it’s good to be the prince.

This week, our hosts dive into *The Last Starfighter,* a 1984 sci-fi classic that dared to ask, "What if your high score could save the universe?" *The Last Starfighter* follows Alex, a teen stuck in a sea of tan suede and tumbleweeds, who unexpectedly becomes a real-life starfighter after mastering a mysterious arcade game. Flanked by his scaly co-pilot Grig, Alex navigates the cosmos to take down the villainous Xur and his gnarly Kodan Armada.

Steve, stewing in nostalgia, fondly recalls this cinematic gem that filled his childhood with dreams of saving galaxies between homework and dinner. Nic, however, experiences this cosmic romp for the first time and offers a fresh (and hilariously skeptical) perspective. From the delightfully dated graphics that scream '80s video game to the terrifying Lithgow-headed aliens, our hosts cover every quirky detail.

Despite its kitschy effects and questionable dialogue, this episode is a heartwarming reminder of the charms of early sci-fi cinema and the imaginative tales that captivated young minds.

Tune in for laughs, cultural insights, and the undeniable allure of star-fighting nostalgia. Whether you're revisiting an old favorite or discovering this flick for the first time, 2 Dads 1 Movie will have you dreaming of otherworldly adventures.

We dive deep into the film’s weird, wonderful tone: part crime thriller, part philosophical bro-down. There’s debate over Johnny Utah’s law enforcement credentials, Bodhi’s cult-leader vibes, and how Kathryn Bigelow made a heist movie feel like a spiritual quest. Also: mid-air fistfights, Reagan masks, and at least one very serious conversation about meatball subs.

Is Point Break secretly brilliant, gloriously dumb, or both? Either way, we’re riding this one all the way to the 50-year storm.

We unpack what made this movie the gateway drug for every early-2000s poker kid, relive our own amateur card shark phases, and debate whether the movie holds up in a post–Texas Hold ’Em world. There’s plenty of table talk: underground games, legal drama, loyalty, betrayal — and why no one in this film ever just goes to class.

Is Rounders a slick character study, a glorified gambling PSA, or just an excuse to wear hoodies in dimly lit rooms? We’ve got the chips and the hot takes.

We break down why this movie was a staple of every mid-90s cable channel, marvel at Meryl’s surprising action chops, and wonder how much of this was actually filmed on location (spoiler: a lot). There’s dadcore fashion, river safety tips, and a few solid arguments about whether this film is secretly a top-tier mom movie.

Is The River Wild a lost gem of 90s thrillers or just wet and forgettable? We’ve got thoughts — and a paddle.

We debate whether Ash is actually a horror hero or just a magnificent idiot, celebrate the glorious cheapness of some of the best (worst?) fight scenes ever filmed, and wonder aloud how much "Chainsaw Hand Maintenance" would really cost. Along the way, we get nostalgic about video stores, action figures, and that golden age when sequels were just totally bananas.

This isn’t just another Evil Dead movie — it’s an undead, over-the-top, time-traveling epic. Hail to the King, baby!

Come along as Nic and Steve take a look at this send-up of numerous sci-fi franchises, including Star Wars, Alien, Star Trek, and Planet of the Apes. Will it hold up? How does it look with a fresh set of eyes in 2025?

All those answers (plus how long it takes Spaceball One to fly past the camera in the film's opening sequence) in this episode of 2 Dads 1 Movie!

Is it a great movie? It is not a great movie, but sometimes, not-great movies can make for some pretty great discussions, so come along with the 2 Dads and join in the fun conversation!

We'll cover everything the movie has to offer, including negligent landlords, breeding roaches, stripping a Porsche 911 for parts, the clear need for HIPAA, and a complete and total lack of any of the character that San Francisco is rightly known for.

This was Nic's first experience with Singles, and he and Steve dive in to what works, what doesn't, what holds up, and what hasn't aged well. Is the movie still "cool"? Any movie that features Eddie Vedder, Jeff Ament, Stone Gossard, Chris Cornell, Layne Staley, and Jerry Cantrell can't be "uncool," can it?

Maybe not? Maybe? Does Campbell Scott belong in a "cool" movie? Come along with the 2 Dads and let's explore together.

The guys discuss the plot, the casting choices, and the overall vibe of this early-90s classic of the "kids save the day" subgenre, and ask the question: should this movie have been PG-13?

Listen along and see if you agree with their takes on Toy Soldiers now, 34 years after its release.

And, well, at least that made the choice of film kind of self-evident. If we’re going to be recording on Groundhog Day, might as well talk about the film Groundhog Day.

This one was fun to look back at, as I think all the movies we choose for the podcast will be. But boy, does so much of this film age poorly. It’s hard to root for a guy like Phil Connors, whose first instinct when he realizes he’s experiencing the same day over and over is to see how best to manipulate an attractive woman into having sex with him.

Yikes.

Nic and I discuss this and many other ramifications of time loops, plus we dive in to what other media you might recognize several cast members from (hint: if you love “Schitt’s Creek”, pay attention) and just generally discuss what it was like to revisit this classic after so many years.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

— Steve