Textbook example of a movie that worked when you were eight years old, with significantly diminishing returns. I must've watched this a hundred times, back when Ernest was still a minor national phenomenon, then left it on the shelf for three decades before a recent re-visit with my kids. Today the roles have reversed, of course, and while the youngsters cheered for exploding toilets and parachuting box turtles, I rolled my eyes at the tacky one-liners and lazy, cut-rate production.

Jim Varney really is the film’s sole redeeming quality, recklessly hurling himself into the title role with unconditional abandon. He's boundlessly energetic, a short-fused bundle of nonstop physical comedy with a halting, drawl-tinged voice. No wonder he caught on for a brief, fifteen-minute flirtation with fame. Ernest is about more than easy laughs, too. Varney's charisma is magnetic, with a noticeable trace of sweetness at the root of it all. He's garish and one-note, but that inherent, simple openness is genuine and disarming. The story might force-feed him into sappy situations, befriending a bullied kid and standing up to the ultimate 80s stereotype (a corporate businessman with no respect for nature, the horror), but we can't really blame him for failing to polish that turd. It wasn't for lack of trying.