101 Dalmatians

I remember watching this on a VHS tape that had a faint, sticky residue from a Blockbuster rental that refused to come off, no matter how much I picked at it. It was 1996, a year when John Hughes (the genius behind Home Alone and The Breakfast Club) was leaning heavily into his "slapstick for the whole family" phase. While the 1961 animated original was a jazzy, mid-century modern masterpiece of line work and suspense, this live-action update decided to trade sophistication for a literal bucket of molasses.

Looking back, 101 Dalmatians is the "Patient Zero" for the Disney remake machine we see today. Before the CGI-soaked hyper-realism of the 2010s, we had this: a film that relied on actual dogs, actual sets, and one of the most committed villainous performances in the history of the medium.

The High Priestess of Polka Dots

Let’s be honest—we aren't here for the dogs. We are here for Glenn Close. If you ever want to see an actress devour the scenery, the props, and possibly several supporting cast members, this is your film. Close doesn't just play Cruella de Vil; she inhabits a terrifying, high-fashion hurricane. I’ve always felt that Cruella is the only person in this movie with an actual work ethic, even if her HR department is a literal nightmare.

She brings a Shakespearean intensity to a script that largely involves people falling into vats of farm waste. Interestingly, Close famously insisted on keeping her entire wardrobe as part of her contract. When you see the intricate, skeletal, and downright architectural costumes she wears, you realize she was the real winner of this production. She’s matched in charm by Jeff Daniels as Roger and Joely Richardson as Anita, though their romance feels a bit like a secondary concern compared to the logistics of a puppy heist.

The Hughes School of Hard Knocks

Since John Hughes penned the screenplay, the second half of the film essentially transforms into Home Alone: Kennel Edition. This is where we meet the bumbling henchmen, Jasper and Horace. Played by Hugh Laurie (long before he was the world’s grumpiest doctor in House) and Mark Williams (our future Arthur Weasley), they are the heartbeat of the film’s comedy.

Their timing is impeccable. Whether they are getting electrocuted, falling through frozen ponds, or being outsmarted by a raccoon, their chemistry is what keeps the slapstick from feeling entirely hollow. This was the mid-90s peak of "consequence-free violence." There’s a specific rhythm to a Stephen Herek directed comedy—he also gave us Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure—where the pacing is breakneck, ensuring the kids don’t get bored and the adults don't have time to question why Roger’s career as a video game designer is going so poorly. Speaking of which, Roger’s video game looks like a Commodore 64 fever dream that would have flopped in any decade.

The Practical Magic of 250 Puppies

In an era where we’d now just render 101 spotted dogs in a computer, there is something genuinely tactile and impressive about seeing this many actual puppies on screen. The production reportedly used over 200 different Dalmatian puppies because they grew too fast during filming. It gives the movie a "chaos factor" that CGI can’t replicate. You can see the actors occasionally struggling to hold onto their squirming co-stars, and it adds a layer of warmth to the film that feels very "analog 90s."

The film was a monstrous success, raking in $320 million on a $54 million budget. It proved to Disney that there was gold in those old animated hills. It didn’t matter that the animals didn't talk (a wise choice, in my opinion, which was later reversed in the 2000 sequel); the visual of a sea of spots was enough to dominate the holiday box office. It captured that specific Y2K-adjacent vibe where Hollywood was obsessed with "big" family events that could sell a mountain of stuffed toys at McDonald’s.

Ultimately, the 1996 101 Dalmatians is a loud, messy, and occasionally brilliant piece of commercial filmmaking. It’s held together by the sheer force of Glenn Close's lungs and the undeniable cuteness of its four-legged stars. It hasn't aged into a "prestige" classic, but it remains a fantastic time capsule of a decade when the Disney remake was a novelty rather than an inevitability. If you’re looking for a breezy 100 minutes of nostalgia and high-fashion villainy, you could do much worse.

Just keep an eye on your coat.