A month ago we witnessed the death of a pop culture icon who had disintegrated before our eyes. And now it’s happened again.

John Hughes, the writer/director of some of the seminal teenage-oriented films of the eighties, died today on the streets of New York of an apparent heart attack. He was 59.

Hughes never directed a film of any substantial Academy award merit, his eighties films touched a nerve with a generation of teenagers. He had a canny knack of carefully crafting memorable dialogue, and welding it to instantly iconic characters. Hughes also made use of the blossoming language of music videos in the framing, style, and editing of his films.

Although the best film ver touched by Hughes was probably MR. MOM (Hughes wrote the film), the best Hughes film is, in my opinion, SIXTEEN CANDLES. Unlike some of his later teen films, CANDLES is blissfully free of artifice. It helps that Hughes’ airtight screenplay was fleshed out by one of the best casts ever assembled. It is the one movie I can watch endlessly and marvel at the technical perfection while still enjoying the movie itself.

What a shame it was that Hughes left the industry behind mysteriously in 1991. All accounts painted Hughes as an insufferable prick, and it seems that Hollywood did not mourn his departure. But, despite his personal failings, Hughes had a gift that was somehow squandered after that. Like Jackson, we are left with a mixture of sadness and confusion at his passing.

Thankfully Hughes managed to live out the remaining years of his life in relative normalcy, somehow managing to avoid radical nosejobs, pedophilia, and Diprivan. Hughes simply shut up, packed his bags, and went home. He left a body of work that still captivates and entertains, and left us wanting more. And that, in the end, is the mark of a true entertainer.

R.I.P John Hughes.