There are few filmmakers - hell, few artists - with such immediate cultural cache as Steven Spielberg. The man is single-handedly responsible for the matinee fever dreams of multiple generations of movie-goers as well as being able to put together Oscar-nominated films on the turn of a time. So the fact that he decided to be the one to adapt Ernest Cline's novel celebrating a whole bunch of the "stuff" that Spielberg was either involved with producing, or more directly responsible for, always seemed like. . . an odd choice.
How do you make a decent film out of a coming of age novel about celebrating your own stuff?
As it turns out, you make the movie all about how empty the pursuit of only "stuff" is in the long run.
As it turns out, you make the movie all about how empty the pursuit of only "stuff" is in the long run.
