For the Love of God.
Billy Chapel is one of those classical movie characters. He is
a jock when it’s
most necessary and a gentleman when the story calls for it. He meets
Jane Aubrey
(Preston) and they begin a relationship that they only tend to every
4-6 weeks when Billy
is in town to play the New York Yankees. (I was waiting for a package
to arrive
everytime they got together - not that I was distracted or anything....).
Billy plays for the
Detroit Tigers. The owner sells the franchise and tells Billy that
the new owners are
going to trade him. Why does he carry on about being traded when he
travels all the time
anyway and his girlfriend lives four states away (we know it’s Jane
that’s keeping him a Tiger, that and, oh yeah - the “love of the game”)?
This begins another long set of questions I ask myself in the duration
of the film.
First of all, the chemistry here is nil. Preston and Costner don’t
click - but don’t
worry - I don’t think anybody would have clicked with Costner in this
role. As he ages,
his patience seems to go. Playing close to his real age (4 years younger)
in 'For Love of
the Game', he seems to do alot of cryptic whining and his confidence
is so inconsistent, it
makes this romance-fantasy-baseball movie of sorts seem all too droll
and depressing. (If
you’ll indulge me - I think the casting directors should have hired
two comedic actors,
ask them to play straight and give us a comedic thrill of pure campiness.)
Why does the writer decide to present Jane’s daughter (the sniveling
Jena
Malone from 'Stepmom') when he does? She has run away from New York
to Boston.
Costner must rescue her because he is in town playing the Red Sox (anyone
else read that
as a little too convenient?). On the way home, they bond. Then he instantly
transforms
into a father-figure, because, her real dad is “stoned 90% of the time”.
I say, bring the
real father out, not only is Costner wooden at playing daddy, but the
movie sorely needs
a goofball character. It attempts to put that in Gus (Reilly, playing
a mothering Ying of a
catcher to Costner’s Yang), but fails miserably when it constantly
makes him the tour
guide of Costner’s last days as a professional baseball player. Reilly
ends up being more
serious than we really need.
The film also has a great chance to slip a truly interesting theme
into the film and
botches it horribly. Costner is cutting wood on a bandsaw at his cabin
in the mountains
(don’t even try to guess why - the film is not going to tell you) and
cuts his pitching hand.
It was an accident and he gets to hurt Jane, curse at his trainer and
listen to the muffled
whispers of his teammates as they hypothesize about whether or not
he’ll return to “the
game”. Instead, what the film could have done, was hint that he cut
himself purposefully
to test his strength and his spirit. Adding a theme that’s more than
an inch deep to the
stew always helps a film. That was just an idea, fellas - please don’t
add my name to the
writing credits - I want nothing to do with this turkey.
There’s other things. The film evolves into what I call a “honey
dripper” film.
This occurs when a movie get so sappy and sentimental that you can’t
help but smile out
of embarrassment for the characters. You have to, almost literally,
wipe the honey off of
your head because the syrupy dialogue / music of the film has caused
the sticky-sweet
nectar to drip from the ceiling.
'For Love of the Game' is also formulaic. There’s nothing in this
film that leads me
to believe that there was an ounce of original thought or creative
structure put into
creating this film. Even when it seems that the wonderful Sam Raimi
('A Simple Plan',
'Darkman') may be doing something powerful (such as a long shot held
for almost thirty
seconds of Costner crying on a hotel bed) he ends up doing something
flat and usual (like
cutting to a close-up of almost the same length right as the scene
begins to take us to the
next level).
Again, my judgement was tainted. I really and honestly thought
that with Costner
in front of the camera (and not behind - dear God, not behind, spare
us!) we wouldn’t see
anything as bad as 'Waterworld', 'The Postman' or 'Dances With Wolves'
(go ahead, debate
me!). Unfortunately, based on his outcry that the film was only rated
PG-13 and we
didn’t get to see his penis (I’m not kidding folks!), I’m assuming
that he had more control
than I expected. Pity. A man who signs a contract to bring in a PG-13
film and then
complains about the film not showing his manhood probably shouldn’t
be working in
films. He probably shouldn’t be working at all. Note to our leading
man : life imitates art
- quit while you’re behind (but not behind the camera!).