Among the many reasons I’m long overdue for therapy would be that I consider a feature about a bunch of people trapped in a burning skyscraper a feelgood movie. But there it is: the stunning effects (which hold up to this day), the sprawling, larger-than-life cast and accompanying who-will-make-it-to-the-end? suspense, the earnest, cheeseball dialogue – whenever I feel anxious or down, something about The Towering Inferno offers solace.
The most obvious reason boils down to one thing: nostalgia. My parents were film enthusiasts who would usually take us to a movie every week. And this was no ordinary experience: The Towering Inferno was the crown jewel in the 1970s disaster cycle, disdained by many critics for being trashy (while acknowledging it was entertaining trash). It was the talk of the schoolyard: whose parents were cool enough to actually take their kids to see this big-screen spectacle? Thus it was one of my primal filmgoing experiences: it accompanies fond memories of my parents treating us to something that felt as exhilarating as the circus.
