As much as it makes me blush, I admit that I'm a huge fan of Molly Ringwald. To those of you who don't know who the fuck this is, Molly Ringwald gained her fame (or infamy) appearing in three low-budget, but enormously successful films by John Hughes: Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, and Pretty in Pink. These are probably the only films of hers that are legitimately good, if not great. However, an actress as awesomely hammy as she is cannot be bound to the work of a single director; she had a falling out with Hughes, had a string of flops, and is currently a writer and jazz singer with a husband and three kids. Since 1990 (the year of her last bona-fide, stateside theatrical release), Ringwald made a name for herself as a b-list icon in films ranging in quality from so-bad-it's-good to kill-me-please. There's something about Ringwald's performances that make you ask yourself what's going on in her enigmatic mind. She's like a female Nicolas Cage: even if the film sucks, she still fascinates you.
