Although John Hughes has basked in the angsty glow of high school politics more than any other thirty-something writer/director, it's tough to blame him for returning to the well when the results most of those ventures yield are as seminal as this. Every teen comedy worth its salt explored the strict dividing lines between lunch room cliques, but Breakfast Club did it best. Because Hughes gave each clique a sterling representative, and gave each representative a compelling backstory that went beyond outward appearances and provided legitimate reasons for why the jock became a jock and the dork became a dork. But let's not kid ourselves, The Breakfast Club isn't endlessly re-watchable because of its attention to emotional histories. It's the dancing montage. It's the exaggerated chase through the halls. It's the satisfaction in watching the diverse cast of students form a bond and then using that bond to give their principal hell and make the most of a Saturday in detention. Still, it certainly doesn't hurt that the brain, the athlete, the basket case, the princess, and the criminal are more than the usual caricatures.