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Dustin Freeley

Movie Review: Moneyball — “Almost” Doesn’t Count in Baseball, or in Movies

by Dustin Freeley on September 28, 2011 · 0 comments

As the 2011 baseball season approaches its 162nd game, most eyes will be on the Boston Red Sox and the Tampa Bay Rays. The former has blown the nine game lead they held in the Wild Card race on September 9th when they were a half-game back of the New York Yankees and on pace to win 98 games in the stacked American League East. The latter took advantage of Boston’s precarious pitching and drew even on the second-to-last day of the season. If both teams win against their respective opponents, Baltimore and New York, a one-game playoff will decide who polishes their golf clubs tomorrow morning.

As a Mets fan, the only interest I hold in this circumstance is to watch a team suffer a more epic collapse than New York did in 2007 when they decided that a consecutive division title and a playoff berth just wasn’t their thing. At the same time, there’s something eerie about the surging Rays and the plummeting Sox coinciding with the release of Moneyball, a film based on Michael Lewis’ 2003 novel of the same name that examines the actions of Oakland A’s general manager, Billy Beane, just after he loses a heartbreaking five-game series to the New York Yankees and, subsequently, loses three marquee players: Jason Giambi (Yankees), Johnny Damon (Boston), and Jason Isringhausen (St. Louis).

As the general manager, Beane (Brad Pitt) handles a small-market club that lies behind the “rich teams,” “poor teams,” and beneath “fifty feet of crap.” Plus, it’s “gutted” and unable to hold onto its centerpieces once they are allowed to test the waters of free agency. Therefore, they become less a perennial contender and more a “farm system” for other teams like the Yankees, Red Sox, and Mets with deeper pockets. Acknowledging the need for the ball club to “adapt or die,” Beane teams up with Peter Brandt (Jonah Hill), a baseball analyst with an economics degree from Yale, to build a team that is not based on marquee names or “five tool players” who look “ready to play the part,” but is cultivated from statistical success, focusing primarily on “on-base-percentage.” Here, like in Lewis’ book, the theory is sound: the more people on base, the more possible runs. The more runs scored, the more wins. This theory ultimately benefits Beane and his ball club because on-base-percentage doesn’t demand as much money as homeruns, stolen bases, and other crowd-drawing spectacles.

In Moneyball, the theory is sound and proven – at least in 2002 – as the A’s won one more games than they did in 2001 when they had big names in their line up and on the mound. And in terms of nostalgia, it was fun to relive the A’s strive for twenty wins in a row as they nearly blew an eleven run lead over the lowly Kansas City Royals, however, the movie lacks something – and that something seems to be a “so what?”

Admittedly, it’s impressive to see what Beane did in 2002, and in a sense, he is credited with disproving the operational strategies of the biggest spenders in baseball. At the same time, the movie itself is rather misleading. Yes, Oakland began in the basement of the AL West. Yes, there was tension between Beane and manager Art Howe (Philip Seymour Hoffman). Yes, there were questionable trades made around the forty-game mark in the season, and, yes, the A’s went on a huge winning streak and ended up finishing the season with 103 wins. However, there is very little credit given to their amazing pitching staff.  Statistically, Oakland followed its game plan and scored runs via on-base-percentage rather than the long ball. But, in order to ensure this plan works, the pitching staff needs to keep the other team off the board – something that is facilitated by the presence of Tim Hudson, Mark Mulder, and former Cy Young Award winner Barry Zito.

In 2002, the triad won a combined 57 games of Oakland’s 103 wins. In 2003, they won 45 games of Oakland’s 96 wins; in 2004, they won 40 games out of 91 wins, and by 2005 – when only Zito was left because the other two were poached by bigger market clubs – the team had won 88 games and finished second in the West. While the film focuses a lot on the building of an offense through statistical calculations, it also elides the blatant connection between big name pitching and success.

What’s also a bit wonky – from a fan’s perspective – is the notion that baseball has been forever altered by Beane’s use of statistics to build a ball club. Oakland is a small-market team, but it has yet to win a World Series under Beane  – and hasn’t been above the .500 mark for the past six seasons. At the same time, the movie dismisses the fact that the Arizona Diamondbacks won the World Series in 2001, the year in which the movie begins by documenting Oakland’s devastating loss to the New York Yankees. At that time, the Yankees were MLB’s top payroll at $110million while Arizona’s payroll was 8th at $81million. Admittedly, the A’s were paying a mere $38million, but that’s only slightly less than the Marlin’s $48.7million payroll (25th) when they won the Series (over the New York Yankees) in 2002  – the year that Moneyball documents. Likewise, with the exceptions of 2004 and 2007 when the Red Sox won the World Series, the other champs for the last ten years have been outside of the top ten in payroll.

In the end, Moneyball is a movie about a theory that portends to be successful but isn’t really. I also feels much like last year’s The Social Network – and even includes some of the same subdued score as Beane and Brandt tried to translate numbers into wins – but this is not necessarily a positive. The somber nature of the film and pitting of “haves” against “have nots” suggests a poignant allegory to capitalism and how the latter can “adapt.” To its credit, Moneyball is well-acted and well-written, but it stakes the claim that the little guy can win – when he doesn’t, despite the tongue-in-cheek metaphor at the end of the movie. More frustratingly, it imagines coincidence and a piece of success as the whole truth, which it’s not.

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Fear and Loathing Where the Buffalo Roam: Hunter S. Thompson and his Alter Egos

by Dustin Freeley on September 15, 2011 · 0 comments

As the trailer for the film adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary makes its way around the internet and into the laps of Gonzo-followers, the premier looms and conjures previous imaginings of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on the silver screen. Thompson – or more appropriately, his alter-ego Raoul Duke – has been portrayed in two films based on his 1971 account of debauchery and the chase of the American dream through the Las Vegas desert: Terry Gilliam’s 1998 adaptation Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Art Linson’s 1980 Where the Buffalo Roam. Given the same source material for both films, the question becomes whether or not there is a successful interpretation of the good doctor’s sardonic journey, replete with “two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline … a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, laughers, screamers,” and enough ether to saturate the floorboards and impel the “helpless, irresponsible and depraved” ether binge.

Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing is much more stylized, but this does not necessarily translate to success. At times, he captures the madness and confusion of drug binges, but, most often, these depictions often come across as cartoonish. Whereas a movie like Trainspotting married visceral images of drug use and despair with the abuser’s contradictory feeling of elation, this film often comedifies the entire situation with Duke’s (Johnny Depp) exaggerated bow-legged walk, his constantly googling eyes, and his tendency to jerk hyperbolically beyond his own description of an “Irish drunkard.”

The same stylistic flaws can be seen as Gilliam attempts to faithfully translate Thompson’s account of Duke’s hallucinations while he and his faithful lawyer Dr. Gonzo (Benicio Del Toro) find themselves in a “reptile bar” after “checking into a Federal hotel under a phony name and commit capital fraud on a headful of acid.” The way in which the “giant bats” appear only in reflections in Duke’s and Dr. Gonzo’a sunglasses, and woven vines in the carpet come to life and wind their way around the employees’ ankles is subtle, haunting and trippy, though the transmogrification of patrons into gila monsters and kimoda dragons foreshadows the fatal flaw in his most recent full-length feature, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. The ability to use special effects does not dictate that they must be used – or ensure that they will be used well. Here, their ubiquity often distracts from any poignancy being conveyed by the voice-over narration that has been taken from the original novel.

Aside from the overzealous use of CGI, Fear and Loathing translates well…I think. In one sense, this film embodies Thompson’s belief that art exists in the gray area of truth and fiction, a chiaroscuro that dismisses objective journalism in favor of braving beyond the politically correct recollection of certain histories. At the same time, Fear and Loathing could also be categorized as overly stylized schlock that embraces the ability to conjure obscure images but shows no temperament or restraint, choosing to sacrifice political and social satire for moments that might best define the film as a cult classic – not for its content, insight, or poignancy, but for lines that recall “two women fucking a polar bear.” If in fact the movie is geared to the former, then it speaks to Thompson’s belief that his journalistic beat was the “death of the American dream.” If it’s the latter, then the film becomes a wasted interpretation that hardly does the good Doctor Thompson justice.

At the same time, there is at least one glaring success in Gilliam’s film, namely the separation of the author Thompson from his character Duke. While the novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is supposed to be autobiographical, it’s no secret that Thompson builds much of his narration on shreds of truth and was once introduced as the “most accurate and least factual” journalist in America.

Perhaps this is why Thompson preferred Gilliam’s film to Linson’s – and even makes a cameo during one of Duke’s binges.  Perhaps it’s because Gilliam truly cartoonifies Duke, separating him from Thompson while keeping some of his basic mannerisms and inflections true to the inspiration. While Depp’s bow-legged stroll is hyperbolized – as if he’s constantly stepping ”giant bat” feces — there are still nuances that belong to Thompson. The same can be said for the chaotic attention paid to Duke’s cigarette holder, a fixture that follows nearly every image found of the real Thompson. Some might suggest that this exaggerated rendition bastardizes who Thompson was, but that’s the point, and, in fact, it appears it would be what Thompson would have wanted. Check out the video of the real-life Thompson’s rant on a BBC reporter who neglects to distinguish between him and Duke:

The frustration that lies beneath Thompson’s assertion that “I’m never sure which one people expect me to be … most often, with people I don’t know, I’m expected to be Duke, not Thompson” illustrates the obscured distinction between the character and the author, something that is doubly depicted in the movie as Duke receives a telegram addressed to Thompson c/o Duke. And maybe this speaks to the world of journalism in general where the visage of an author is far less important than the words he or she generates. In other words, Thompson’s name is well known, but his image could be transfered to various other personas.

The primary issue that I’ve found with the film is that, in the end, it lacks the mordant satire that Thompson offered in his novel. To its credit, one of the final voice-overs is poignant, but it’s a gauntlet getting to Duke’s – and I would venture Thompson’s — epiphany that the ideology of the sixties has ceased its death rattle and now lies rigor mortised and rotting, lamenting those people who followed Timothy Leary and the drug culture ideologically “without ever giving thought to the grim meat-hooks realities that were lying in wait for all those who took him seriously.”

In the end, the final ten minutes of the film are the cathartic apex that the novel built to. Unfortunately, the first hour and change takes itself and Thompson’s cultish following for granted.

Regarding Linson’s adaptation of the novel: it begins with Neil Young’s acoustic, nasally, sardonic rendition of “Where the Buffalo Roam,” but this clearly becomes the high point as everything after descends to a confused mixture of poorly written dialog, arbitrary moments that are loosely tethered to events in Thompson’s writings, and Bill Murray trying desperately not to be Bill Murray. To his credit, Murray mimics Thompson’s mannerisms and vocal inflections almost to a tee, but still, there are moments when Murray’s Wild Turkey-induced slurrings are more akin to Carl Spackler (from Caddyshack, a film also released in 1980) than Duke or Thompson. In what might be the penultimate flaw of Where the Buffalo Roam, it deviates from separating Duke and Thompson, rendering them one in the same character. The ultimate sin is its lack of poignancy and the confusion of whether or not it’s a campy biopic or a faithful adaptation of the novel that subtitles itself as a Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.

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Movie Review: Last Night — A Sorta Novel Take on the Infidelity Motif

by Dustin Freeley on September 13, 2011 · 0 comments

A number of films employ an infidelity motif to frame, expand, or elaborate on a plot. Often, the third act of a film hinges on the act and steers the audience toward an interpretation of one character or another. Take a recent movie like the The Kids Are Alright, where infidelity attempts to vilify two characters – Ruffalo and Moore – while it presumes vindication for the third (Bening). The same might be said for Fatal Attraction and Indecent Proposal (both by Adrian Lyne), in which the female transgressors are ultimately seen as the antagonists – as are, to a lesser degree Dan Gallagher (Michael Douglas) and John Gage (Robert Redford), respectively. The reasons for this are more stereotypically stigmatized than anything else; however, the sexual interloping limns both arcs, creates conflict, and imagines the characters.

In a somewhat refreshing approach, Last Night avoids the focus on sexual relations – for the most part – and leads the audience through various cuts between a husband and wife who find themselves on separate paths to respective trysts. Of course, these paths are initially chartered by tension within the first five minutes of the movie: Joanna Reed (Keira Knightley) is running late to get dressed for a party for which her husband Michael (Sam Worthington) is already suited in black tie apparel. Not sure if this stereotypical conflict between man and woman should impel the desire for adultery, but, here, their mutual frustration carries over to the gathering at Michael’s firm, and Joanna’s paranoia is piqued by the attention Michael pays to his co-worker Laura (Eva Mendes).

As Joanna drinks wine and mingles with others, she spots Michael and Laura on a terrace. Nothing really happens between the two aside from Laura’s hand resting on his shoulder, but this visual is enough to prompt Joanna to go silent and offer the all-telling “nothing” as a rejoinder to Michael’s inquiry of “what’s wrong?” Joanna’s all-too-familiar inflection that bespeaks frustration and annoyance bordering on anger doubly confirms that something is amiss – as does her scowl-ridden dash from the elevator and the aggressive removal of her clothing as she prepares to sleep on the couch. Her reaction – along with Michael’s sincere disavowal of infidelity – begs the question as to whether or not she has some harbored guilt of her own, and this is the interesting part about Last Night: its break down of the minutia of a potential transgression, and moreover whether or not infidelity is defined by intent, deep-rooted desire, or a physical action.

To its credit, Last Night avoids the pedestrian discussion of whether or not a “break-up” permits transgressions. This has been tackled so readily by sitcoms that to see it in longer form would be less comical and more tedious; likewise, the film takes a look at temptation as an unpredictable human element, something that shies away from Puritan rhetoric and makes its characters flawed from the start, most notably Joanna, who – despite her aggression towards Michael’s conversation with Laura – buries a former flame’s phone number under the ambiguous, androgynous moniker “A” as opposed to Alex. While she hasn’t seen him for two years, and his residence is a fair distance from New York, his very presence on her phone could conjure questions within Michael – or, at least that’s what Joanna’s minor subterfuge suggests. And, with that last sentence, Last Night prompts the question “how does one rate subterfuge as a minor or major violation?”

At the same time, Last Night might also try to be too artsy for its own good. What I mean to suggest is that its constant mellow score juxtaposed with arguments that vacillate between jovial and tense does less to symbolize a natural balance and more to lull the viewer into believing the rather artificial interactions are organic. Likewise, the constant cuts from similar discussions between Joanna and Alex (Guillaume Canet)  – the “A” who mysteriously, and almost stalkerly, arrives outside of Joanna’s door – and Michael and Laura (who happen to be on a business trip in Philadelphia) are a bit wearisome in that the dialogs become mostly perfunctory and, most often, devolve to exposition. This is most apparent when Joanna and Alex go to dinner with two of Alex’s business associates. As Alex steps out for a smoke with his friend’s wife, Truman (Griffin Dunne) grills Joanna with prying questions like “How long have you been married … What does your husband do … Were you faithful …Would that stop you? … How long were you and Alex together? … Do you think you’ll tell your husband about tonight?” Disregard the fact that all Joanna is doing – and all Truman is aware of – is having dinner, so the assumption that she’s going to sleep with Alex seems rather unwarranted. That aside, this interrogation is much less relevant than it is a form of exposition. Ultimately, when pedestrian dialog masked as cleverness leads to exposition, the result is still exposition. And in this case, it is rather useless. The audience is aware of the tension between Joanna and Michael, something that’s doubly showcased as she ignores his first phone call and when their second phone call is riddled with banal chit chat like “how was your day? … the [phone] connection’s not very good” (which might be one of the more transparent metaphors found in the script). In the end, the pseudo philosophical jargon launched by Truman, and eventually by Laura when it’s Michael’s turn to be exposited, is time filler, not poignant or revelatory.

What Last Nighi does well is avoid the closure. The audience knows what each person has done when they’re reunited at home in the last scene. The question is “what happens next?” Since the movie ends on Joanna’s inhale, it’s unclear if she’s planning a confession or an accusation. Do her purple heels in the middle of the living room floor rat her out to Michael who would do best not to say anything incriminating? The end doesn’t save the movie or make it worth watching again, but it does offer a novel take on the infidelity motif, moving its existence from the source of conflict to an end result of a dozen other conflicts.

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Fly-ing Cars! Fly-ing Cars!

by Dustin Freeley on September 9, 2011 · 0 comments

There is nothing like the future showing up late for a good cause. As per Uproxx.com, “The mythical shoe that originally captured the imagination of audiences in Back to the Future II is being released – and they’re here to help create a future without Parkinson’s disease.” Clearly, this is impressive. First, it exemplifies that whole “life imitating art” thing. Second, these shoes will be “auctioned on eBay with all net proceeds going directly to The Michael J. Fox Foundation. Each day for the duration of the ten-day auction, one hundred and fifty pairs of the 2011 NIKE MAG shoes will be made available via eBay’s Fashion Vault.” A sincere kudos is in order to the marriage of industry and philanthropy.

Since these shoes are priced at $1500 a piece, there’s a surefire bet that I will never wear them, but upon closer examination, there’s no reason for me to. The coolest part about these shoes when they were featured in Back to the Future II was their ability to “powerlace,” thus absolving the wearer of the nefarious and tiresome responsibility of having to tie his or her own shoes. Imagine a world where no one trips down the steps on account of loosely fastened laces! Insurance companies might go bankrupt, but emergency rooms will be empty of clumsy folk. It would be a win / win. However, according to random salesguy in the video (Bill Heder), this technology won’t be available until 2015. Not for nothing, but Velcro has been around since about 1948, and we’re expected to believe that in all that time – decades that included the creation of hair in a can, cheese in a can, the Opti-Grab, the Thighmaster, and the Slap Chop – that no one has been able to automate Velcro? This just seems unreasonable, improbable even.

It seems the biggest selling point for these shoes – aside from benefiting the fight against Parkinson’s – is that they light up and hold a charge for four hours. First off, are people aware of the energy crisis that looms at our door? Haven’t the last few years been filled with rhetoric on how to conserve energy and lower electric bills? Isn’t this why I got corkscrew light bulbs, unplug my toaster after each use, and keep my air conditioner on “energy saver”? At the same time, being able to afford $1500 for a shoe implies the means to pay a higher Con Ed bill. That aside, the world has already been privy to shoes that light up. Perhaps they don’t stay lit for four hours, but they light with each step, and if you walk a lot throughout the day, it’s conceivable that you’d accumulate four hours of illumination, no?

Given the attributes that these shoes showcase and the seemingly similar commodities that we already have access to, the shoes themselves serve as more of a placation than anything else. Where am I going with this? Well, I think it’s clear that these shoes are the government’s way of allaying our desire for the coolest feature in Back to the Future – next to the hoverboard of course, but in the same league: flying cars!

As a child of the eighties, I heard prophecies of flying cars and was further encouraged by the illustrated cover of a Boy’s Life magazine from 1990, on which two people playing chess say in a dome-shaped sedan that hovered a few feet off the ground but was completely self-operational. Eventually came Back to the Future II and the establishment of illuminated, elevated highways to allay the fears that flying cars would signal airborne tragedies. Doubts were dispelled and we all rejoiced at the possibility of never having to pay attention to the road again. Where we were going, we didn’t need roads.

But alas, we are ground bound to gas guzzlers that stall if their tailpipes and gas tanks are filled with vegetable scraps and household refuse. (What of Mr. Fusion?!) In the end, the Nike Mag is a wonderful fundraising tool for the fight against Parkinson’s disease, and those who can afford them should do so out of philanthropy; those who can’t are able to donate in other ways; however, for me, these shoes simply represent a dream of reckless flight that goes unfulfilled.

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