On point.

I rewatched Grosse Pointe Blank last night. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last. But this time, I had a reason beyond the occasional urge to bask in its razor-sharp dialogue, impeccable needle drops, and John Cusack’s peak-era charisma.

George Armitage, the film’s director, passed away. And because the universe is nothing if not ironic, his death prompted an outpouring of appreciation for a film that, in all fairness, was always beloved but rarely talked about with the reverence it deserves. It should be in the hall of fame, on every best-of-the-'90s list, as one of those movies that just works—every beat, every line, every blood-splattered moment.

I remembered it fondly. But watching it again after a couple of years, I realized I had somehow under-remembered it. It’s better than I recalled. And I already thought it was great.

The setup is deceptively simple: Cusack plays Martin Blank, a professional hitman who finds himself reluctantly attending his ten-year high school reunion. It’s a premise that shouldn’t work as well as it does, but the film walks a tight line between action, comedy, romance, and existential crisis with absurd ease. Minnie Driver is fucking luminous. Dan Aykroyd, playing a rival assassin with an aggressive fondness for unionised bureaucracy, gives his last truly great comedic performance. Alan Arkin, as Blank’s deeply unwilling therapist, steals every scene he’s in. The soundtrack is a fucking banger. I’m adding it to my library.

And then there’s the fight scene in the hallway—a brutal, close-quarters brawl featuring Benny “The Jet” Urquidez, a real-life kickboxing champion. No shaky cam. No over-choreographed dance of violence. Just two men trying to hurt each other in a way that feels almost alarmingly real. It’s one of the best fight scenes ever put to film, and yet Grosse Pointe Blank remains, at its core, a comedy. A dark comedy about a guy who doesn’t know how to stop doing the one thing he’s good at, even if it’s destroying him and he could be doing better.

It’s also the kind of movie we don’t really get anymore. Studios used to make these—mid-budget films aimed at adults that weren’t afraid to be smart, weird, and funny in equal measure. And it’s the wierdness of Cusack and Driver’s chemistry which really, really pays off here. I dont know that I properly appreciated it when I first saw the film. But at the back end of my life, with many many decades between me and my own salad days, I couldnt help but watch and think, yeah, that’s how it was once upon a time.

The action-comedy-romance hybrid is an endangered species. The closest we get now are stupid franchise entries desperate to inject the minimum viable dose of ironic self-awareness into their CGI-fueled spectacle. Grosse Pointe Blank wasn’t a franchise. It didn’t need to be. It told its story, said what it had to say, and left the party without overstaying its welcome.

Maybe that’s why it holds up so well. It’s timeless in a way that most movies—especially comedies—struggle to be. Even though the fashion and tech dates it. Sometimes hilariously so. Those 80s suits. Oh boy. I have bad memories.

Anyway, George Armitage may be gone, but his best film remains, waiting to be rewatched, rediscovered, and reappreciated. If you haven’t seen it in a while, do yourself a favor.

It’s even better than you remember.