MY MOVIE SHELF: Major League

The Task: Watch and write about every movie on my shelf, in order (Blu-rays are sorted after DVDs), by June 10, 2015.  Remaining movies: 204  Days to go: 208

Movie #173:  Major League

If there is a more perfect baseball movie in the world than Major League, I haven’t seen it. For starters, it opens with a song about the actual true historical fact time Cleveland’s Cuyahoga River caught on fire.

The movie’s premise is, of course, that the owner of the beleaguered Cleveland Indians has died and his shrewish awful Vegas showgirl trophy wife inherits, but intends to field the worst team possible so she has legal standing to break the team’s contract with the city of Cleveland and move the team to Miami (apparently before the Marlins were a thing, I guess). She hires tire salesman Lou Brown (James Gammon) to manage the team and invites a long lists of nobodies and has-beens to spring training. (“This guy here is dead!” “Cross him off, then.”)

The rag-tag team goes through lots of ups and downs, suffers some bumps and bruises, and ultimately pull together to show that bitch what’s up by “[winning] the whole. fucking. thing.” “Not bad for a has-been and a couple of never-will-bes.”

Tom Berenger plays past-his-prime catcher Jake Taylor, trying for one last shot in the big time, and one last shot with ex-fiancee Lynn Wells (Rene Russo). Bob Uecker is Indians announcer Harry Doyle, making the best of an oftentimes bad situation. Charlie Sheen is convicted felon pitcher Ricky Vaughn, AKA Wild Thing, AKA Veg-Head. Wesley Snipes is base-stealing speedster Willie Mays Hayes, who shows up out of nowhere. (How did he even get to spring training?) Corbin Bernsen is high-priced diva Roger Dorn, who’s a bit of a douche but has one seriously bad-ass wife and can generally be kept in line with piss on his contract or threats of bodily violence. Chelcie Ross is old-timer pitcher Eddie Harris, who defends Jesus Christ’s hitting ability and frequently wipes snot on the ball. And Dennis Haysbert is the fabulous, frightening, totally beefcake Pedro Cerrano, about whom Trouble With The Curve should’ve been about if it wanted to be a halfway decent movie.

Major League has all the thrilling excitement of an underdog sports movie, combined with sharp comedy and even a little romance, and it holds up like you wouldn’t believe. It’s even hilarious on TV, with all the swear words edited out or dubbed over. (Corbin Bernsen’s “strike this motherfucker out” dubbed over to “strike this … GUY … out” is maybe my favorite piece of censorship ever.) But the real benefit of watching Major League over and over again (which, if you’ve seen it once, you’ve probably watched it a thousand times) is being supplied with a bevy of quotable quotes, good for use in almost any occasion.

If you don’t have much hope? “These guys don’t look too fuckin’ good.”

Any time something is wildly off the mark? “JUUST a bit outside.”

While golfing? “Hats for bats. Keep bats warm.”

Want to threaten someone? “Is very bad to steal Jobu’s rum. Is very bad.”

If someone doesn’t compare you favorably to another woman? “Oh what a bunch of bullshit! I have a much better body than she does!”

Any time someone thinks they got hosed at work? “This isn’t the California Penal League, Vaughn. We’re professionals here!”

If you want to tempt fate? “Up your butt, Jobu.”

Want to pick up a guy? “You are the sexiest man I have ever laid eyes on, and you look like you could use a friend.”

If you think you’ve made a mistake? “We should’ve got the live chicken.”

If you’re not getting any help? “Fuck you, Jobu. I do it myself.”

Whenever you use your American Express card? “Don’t steal home without it.”

If you need a rhyming insult? “Well you run like Mays, but you hit like shit.”

Literally anytime? “Look at this fuckin’ guy.”

And many, many more. So if you haven’t seen Major League yet, you’re missing out on a lot of great quips you could be using in your personal conversations. Isn’t it time you fixed that?

MY MOVIE SHELF: Far From Heaven

The Task: Watch and write about every movie on my shelf, in order (Blu-rays are sorted after DVDs), by June 10, 2015.  Remaining movies: 272  Days to go: 264

Movie #105: Far From Heaven

Nothing against Nicole Kidman, and The Hours is a lovely, lovely film that I think is simply wonderful, but Julianne Moore in Far From Heaven is transcendent, and frankly it’s insane the woman doesn’t have an Oscar yet. Not one!

Years before Mad Men, there was Far From Heaven, a movie that juxtaposes the cinematic ideal of the 1950s with the more realistic and painful social and cultural conflicts that existed just below the surface. To emphasize this contradiction, the movie is filmed in bright and striking colors, the score is melodramatic to the point of being intrusive, and even driving scenes feature the obvious stock-footage film projected behind the back windows of the car. The characters, too, epitomize the suburban lifestyle of the ’50s, as seen in the movies of the time. Don and Betty Draper may have had an outwardly ideal marriage cloaked in secrets, but Frank and Cathy Whitaker (Dennis Quaid and Julianne Moore) did it first.

Cathy Whitaker is outrageously perfect. Always impeccably coiffed and dressed in the latest upper-middle class ’50s housewife fashions — petticoats, pointed bras and heels included — Cathy manages the home, shuffles the kids off to bed or to do their homework, oversees a housekeeper and a gardener, hosts functions, is active in the community, models for Frank’s company’s advertisements, gets written up in the society pages, and calls her husband “darling” at least three times per sentence. It’s over the top on purpose, to reflect how far removed this flawless exterior is from what’s really going on. Frank, see, has been acting shady — staying late at work, getting arrested under ambiguous circumstances, going to the movies by himself and following people into a secret bar around the corner. Cathy accepts his every excuse, but when he calls to say he’s staying late again and Cathy already has dinner ready, she opts to go bring him a plate, perfect wife that she is. What she finds at his office, however, is Frank and another man half-dressed and feverishly making out. Suddenly Cathy’s whole world is shaken. Having a homosexual husband can really strain a girl’s marriage that way.

Cathy is open-minded, though, and eager to help her husband in whatever way she can. He starts going to see a psychiatrist, but that only brings his anger and frustration and shame to the forefront. He drinks more heavily than ever, which leads to an out-of-control moment in which he flails to get her away from him and winds up striking her in the forehead. Losing her grip on the tightly wound life she’s lived up to that point, she bursts into tears and her (black) gardener, Raymond (Dennis Haysbert), sees her. Cathy soon finds herself opening up to him and enjoying his company at a time when, even in Hartford, CT, racism runs rampant. People start talking about and snubbing her, Frank forbids Raymond from working for them ever again, and Cathy is blamed for jeopardizing Frank’s reputation. Desperate and forlorn, she tells Raymond she can’t be his friend any longer. She hopes this will solve everything, but it doesn’t, and life just gets messier and more complicated for Cathy by the day.

Everything about Julianne Moore’s performance is fantastic, from her monied-New-Englander accent to her airy, sophisticated way of holding herself and treating everyone with respect. The desperation and unexpected heartbreak she experiences upon her separation from Raymond reads as stark pain on her face. Haysbert, too, is lovely to watch. The character of Raymond is warm and steadying in a world that, for Cathy, has suddenly turned cold and shaky. And Dennis Quaid is a tightly wound bundle of desire, aggression and self-loathing. He is barely restrained at all times, constantly appearing as if he jump off the screen and bolt to some safer ground. Even Viola Davis, downplaying her natural beauty and captivating persona as the Whitaker’s housekeeper, eyes the goings on in the household with a knowing circumspection and protectiveness. Only Patricia Clarkson, as Cathy’s best friend Eleanor, is played with anything but restraint at the breaking point. Clarkson, to her infinite credit, gets to be bold and outspoken, but she when she finally hears the whole story from Cathy, it’s Cathy’s close friendship with a black man, not Frank’s homosexuality, that rubs her the wrong way. Poor Cathy can’t catch a break.

Far From Heaven is the kind of movie that’s wonderful to remind you that not everything is what it seems, and that people often have far worse problems on their mind than what appears on the surface, in addition to being a touching tale of impossible love amid unfair social rules. It’s one of those films that reinforces a person’s powers of empathy, which is always a good thing, in addition to being a gorgeous visual and emotional statement. It’s not something I watch often, but I always think of it fondly.