We live in a world obsessed with labels. We slap them on everything—products, ideas, even people. We do so neatly, quickly, and often permanently. These labels make people and concepts easier to understand, or at least easier to dismiss.
Directed by John Hughes and released in 1985, The Breakfast Club takes place over a single Saturday in a suburban Chicago high school. The film’s protagonists include five high school stereotypes. Claire (Molly Ringwald), the princess; Andrew (Emilio Estevez), the jock; Bender (Judd Nelson), the problem teen; Brian (Anthony Michael Hall), the brain; and Allison (Ally Sheedy), the freak. Forced to spend the day together in detention, they confront the limitations those labels impose.
As the hours pass, the library becomes both a battleground and a confessional. At first, the teens clash with each other, throwing around assumptions, snap judgments, and biting insults. Each one is armed with a carefully constructed identity; a facade shaped by years of social pressure from the people around them, their parents, their teachers, and their peers. For example, Andrew is pressured by his fellow teammates to cruelly prank a non-athlete, while Brian considers self-harm when he feels he hasn’t measured up academically to his parents’ expectations.
All of the characters are terrified of losing their identities, of slipping into the lives and patterns of the adults they criticize. And yet, that very fear is realized in the roles they perform daily. Their identities afford them status, protection, and even purpose. But they also trap them, making it nearly impossible to connect with anyone beyond the boundaries of their cliques. Despite their differences, they all share similar burdens, whether it’s from social expectations or self-doubt.
The film is particularly insightful in its critique of the narrow way society measures intelligence. As the perception of Brian demonstrates, “smart” in school commonly is equated with exceptional performance in classes considered difficult, like math or science. Yet we learn in the film that Brian, a member of the math club, nearly failed a subject considered easy, shop class, that Bender, who is considered “stupid,” excels in. We can imagine that the stereotyping of Bender would most likely continue after high school and severely limit his life options, an example of the potentially long-term impact of unfair teen labels.
However, The Breakfast Club has its flaws, especially regarding its representation of gender. Bender makes repeated crude and aggressive remarks toward Claire, and at one point even sexually assaults her. And yet, Claire nonetheless shows romantic interest in Bender after these incidents. This dynamic conveys the idea that “boys will be boys,” and that girls must accept demeaning behavior in heterosexual relationships. Allison, too, is only noticed romantically by Andrew after she’s given a makeover that erases her individuality and makes her look stereotypically feminine. Her transformation suggests that a girl must be “normal” and “delicate” to be lovable. And, if you’re not, then that is your problem to fix. In these moments, the film, for all its insight, sometimes reinforces the very stereotypes it aims to break.
Despite its shortcomings, there’s something powerful at the heart of The Breakfast Club. We don’t know whether the five students will talk to each other in the hallway come Monday, or if the magic of that day will dissolve under peer pressure and fear. But for one afternoon, they saw each other clearly and were brave enough to allow themselves to be seen. Ultimately, the film reminds us that connection requires risk: the risk of vulnerability, of stepping outside the roles we’re used to, of realizing that the people around us are just as lost and scared as we are. For one day, they told the truth. And in doing so, they remind us just how small and suffocating the boxes into which we mindlessly place each other and ourselves can be.