The Daily Dose November 16, The producers of Top Gun recently put to rest years of speculation surrounding the s chest-bumping hit. Could one movie be both an unabashed paean to the military and a closeted gay epic?
The Top Gun soundtrack was as 80s and the movie was. So let's bust out our aviators, don our flight suits, and put the moves on our flight instructor, and maybe, just maybe, we too can lose that lovin' feeling. Fizz [Flexes, checks watch] It's time for the Top Gun Soundtrack! And when it needs to take it up a notch in movie, the klaxons burst to life, calling in older recording battleships like Otis Redding, The Righteous Brothers, and Jerry Lee Lewis.
All of a sudden, the door bursts open. We need those magical fingers to perform the most magnificently triumphant music since the National Anthem for our two hour military recruitment commercial named Top Gun, can you do that? You see, eventually their music will help put an end to war and poverty.
It will align the planets and bring them into universal harmony, allowing meaningful contact with all forms of life, from extraterrestrial beings to common household pets. Tony Scott looking incredulous, he had high hopes of having Spinal Tap score his film.
Jerry B. Faltermeyer nodding coolly, he can work with this.
And of course, Edwards cocking his arm for a huge high five, he gets it. Of course he does.
So he steps out of the room. Cruise is thinking. Hamer in hand with the tremolo floating, Steve switches channels from standby to full throttle. The programmatic drums start, panning to and fro, L to R, R to L. The synth bell rings once, now twice. Internalizing this, Steve pictures a fighter jet rising from the depths of an aircraft carrier, maybe the USS Carl Vinson?
Nah, too new. The airman on the flight deck taking orders. A flash of radar, four bogeys en route. Yeah, this is good pacing. Another shot of radar, only now the four bogeys are five, the odds just got worse.
Steve looks over at Cruise, squinty eyed from questioning his own spirituality. Looks at Harold, who is now just turning to face him. Looks at Tony and Don, they have ceased their discussion, sensing that something momentous is about to occur.
And with Jerry B. Anthony Edwards. Edwards matches the stare of one Mr.
Steve Stevens. Mustachioed, with a PBR tallboy in his right hand and his left slowly rising, Edwards goes all in, legs spread wide, fist up, maximum power move. The fingers of rock burst into electric fire. The dimed, but probably at 11 if we are being honest, Marshall full stack bathes everyone in sound.
His spangled raiment, a glossy silver poly-blend, molecularly bonds with his body due to a combination of perspiration and dripping Aquanet from his elaborately teased coif.
Around the world, war stops for four minutes and fourteen seconds. Global Warming, rife with mainstream denial, reverses like Superman flying backward around Earth. Strangers shake hands. Sick babies are healed. Hungry children are fed.
Parents get offered raises. The glass ceiling shatters. While the world outside radiated, the men in the room irrevocably changed for the worse.
Managing to remain out of the room and thus bathing in the radiance of the performance, Jerry B.