Planes, Trains, and Automobiles Review

There is a certain generation—older millennials and boomers—who may find it unthinkable that someone has reached adulthood without seeing Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. I was one of those uninitiated viewers until this week, when I finally watched it with my high school film club. What surprised me most wasn’t that the film is beloved, but how instantly I understood why it earned that place. With a screenplay written, produced, and directed by John Hughes, and starring Steve Martin and John Candy, the film has all the makings of an American comedy classic. I simply don’t know how I let it pass me by for so long.

I’ve always been a John Hughes fan—The Breakfast Club sits comfortably among my favorite films of all time—and even his lesser-discussed works like Curly Sue are staples in my home. Hughes had an unmistakable pen and an undeniable eye, and his collaborations with John Candy produced characters whose warmth and humor feel singular to 1980s cinema. Just days before watching this film, I had finished the John Candy documentary I Like Me, which left me in tears. Knowing that going in gave certain scenes in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles an even deeper resonance.

The premise is simple: Neal Page (Steve Martin), an uptight advertising executive, is desperate to get home to Chicago in time for his daughter’s Thanksgiving performance. What stands between him and a quiet holiday is a gauntlet of transportation disasters—and one overly well-meaning shower-ring salesman, Del Griffith (John Candy). Their first encounter is a small catastrophe; every encounter after that is a larger one. And yet, under Hughes’s direction, these mishaps never feel aimless. The film builds a rhythm out of calamity, and each new setback pushes Neal closer to an emotional breaking point that Martin plays with impeccable comedic timing.

Watching the film with teenagers brought a new layer of humor to the experience—especially when we realized halfway through that the movie is, in fact, rated R. What begins as a mild, PG-feeling holiday movie suddenly erupts into a now-infamous profanity-laced rant from Martin, delivered with such blistering exasperation that we all dissolved into shocked laughter. One student immediately quipped, “You mean we could have watched The Menu?” A top-ten moment of my school year.

The heart of the movie, though, rests on the odd-couple dynamic between Neal and Del. Martin is the consummate straight man—rigid, pressed, and perpetually inconvenienced. Candy’s Del, on the other hand, is expansive, sentimental, and impossibly optimistic, the kind of man who is living for the plot long before that phrase existed. Every scene between them reveals another corner of their personalities, and Hughes threads their journey with small, humane details that make the comedy feel grounded rather than farcical.

Hughes also indulges in the kind of visual chaos he mastered in the 1980s. There is a highway sequence involving cars and trucks that left my students and me cackling. In true Hughes fashion, it’s both absurd and strangely plausible—the cinematic equivalent of a family story that gets funnier every time it’s told. We even replayed the scene for students who arrived late; it was too good not to share.

For all its hilarity, the film’s emotional turn remains effective. Even though the documentary had spoiled a bit of the ending for me, the final scenes still nudged tears from my eyes. Hughes knew how to pull sentiment from the simplest gestures, and Candy had a rare ability to make vulnerability feel genuine rather than saccharine. If this is your first viewing, I’d actually recommend saving the documentary for afterward—to preserve the full charm of encountering Del Griffith on his own terms.

Watching Planes, Trains, and Automobiles now, decades after its release, I was reminded how timeless a well-constructed comedy can be. Hughes’s script is sharp, Martin and Candy are pitch-perfect, and the film exudes the kind of warmth that modern comedies rarely attempt, let alone achieve. It is a story of inconvenience and frustration, but also of generosity, companionship, and the unexpected ways we find our way home.

I’m giving this film a hearty Her Reel Review four and a half out of five stars. It’s a movie worth revisiting if you haven’t seen it in years—and absolutely worth discovering if you’re new to it like I was. We streamed it on Paramount, though it’s available on several platforms. Wherever you watch, you’ll be met with the unmistakable magic of Steve Martin, John Candy, and John Hughes working at their best.

Shaquanna “Quanna” Stevens is a film critic, educator, and storyteller who reviews films through the lens of culture, representation, and genre. She runs Her Reel Review, where she explores horror, romance, fantasy, and films by Black creators. When she’s not writing or filming reviews, she teaches English IV Honors and AP Literature, advises student filmmakers, and helps young creatives develop their voices.