Hey folks, Harry here with the man we all wish was for rent, Mr Beaks and his lap-dance of a review of FEVER PITCH. And he hates Boston, Boston Red Sox Fans and Baked Beans ta boot. He hates a lot, but he apparently really likes this. There's obviously something in L.A.'s water... read for proof...
FEVER PITCH (d. Bobby and Peter Farrelly, w. Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel, based on a novel by Nick Hornby)
Is it me, or have the Boston Red Sox and their obnoxious fans been loudly legging out the longest victory lap in professional sports history?
I don’t ask this as a Sox hater. Completely. Truth be told, I really don’t have any great affection for the organization. As a Cleveland Indians fan, Boston’s certainly been responsible for plenty of heartache (namely, the 1999 ALDS mismanaged from the jaws of victory by Mike Hargrove through his reliance on Jaret Wright’s hittable ninety-five mph fastball; also, two years later, the bastards would lure away my favorite player, Manny Ramirez, with a fat free agency offer), but the New York Yankees have always been a source of greater animus. Hating the Yankees is easier and more sensible given the way they spend themselves into yearly contention, instilling an unbearable arrogance in their fan base, which inexplicably spreads out across the country and numbers many fair-weathered Midwesterners who’ve never even set foot in New York City (beneficiaries, no doubt, of the “America’s Team” nonsense that’s made the Dallas Cowboys one of the most hated team in the NFL). Living in Manhattan for five years during their recent run of championships only deepened my hatred for all things pinstripe.
In other words, if the Yankees are the big, bad bête noire standing in your way to ending eighty-seven years of World Series futility, I guess you’re entitled to overdo the celebration a little. Credit, then, the Farrelly Brothers for exhibiting restraint in crafting their ode to heartbreak’s improbable end with a low-key, shambling, but utterly charming adaptation of Nick Hornby’s FEVER PITCH, in which the Red Sox comprise one-third of a love triangle along with Drew Barrymore and Jimmy Fallon. It’s the sharpest refinement yet of the Farrelly formula, where the sweetness is now spiked by shock instead of the other way around (an approach that missed completely with SHALLOW HAL, but worked surprisingly well for the vastly underrated and underseen STUCK ON YOU). While this relative defanging may turn off a sizable portion of that coveted young male demographic in the future, at least they’ve got the lure of baseball to draw ‘em in this time.
That’s *all* they had as far as I was concerned two weeks ago when I was ferried by one of West Hollywood’s leading male escorts to see the film way north in freakin’ Winnetka (somewhat south of motherhumpin’ Woodland Hills). It sure as shit wasn’t Jimmy Fallon, the most atrociously unfunny SNL “graduate” since Ellen Cleghorn. Though we’re all too frequently afforded the excruciating displeasure of watching performers devoid of any innate skill rapidly ascend the cum-stained stairwell to showbiz stardom, Fallon, remarkably, stands out for his brazen unctuousness. Most comedians are driven by an absence of love or attention; Fallon, during his SNL-stint, appeared driven only by a desire for the success attained by Adam Sandler, telegraphing this by first imitating his idol before filching his shtick wholesale. Happily, it hasn’t worked out for Fallon… much. Sure, his charmed life landed him in the ensemble of ALMOST FAMOUS, but, since then, it’s been just desserts, culminating in the cinematic Nanking known as TAXI. I’ve only recently watched TAXI, and, lemme tell ya, the way Tim Story allowed Fallon to riff desperately like the last kid on the playground to regurgitate the best bits from EDDIE MURPHY: COMEDIAN… it felt like forced penance. Sure, Fallon got paid millions to die onscreen for ninety minutes, but the irreparable harm done to his career by film’s end almost made me feel bad for the kid. Imagine Ike and Tina Turner having done a reality show back in the 1960’s, and you’ve got an idea as to the magnitude of his creative suicide.
It’s with this in mind that I now find myself looking back with even more fondness on FEVER PITCH. Fallon isn’t great, but he’s genuinely ingratiating as Ben, a lifelong Red Sox fan with the ultimate birthright: season tickets along the first base line at Fenway. They were willed to him by his Uncle Carl, who all but raised him, while the ticket holders surrounding him have, through the years, become his “summer family”. In the offseason, Ben’s a mild-mannered school teacher, and it’s this personality that endears him to systems analyst Lindsay, played with trademark affableness by Drew Barrymore. They fall in love to the relative surprise of Lindsey’s friends, all of whom are betrothed to smarmy I-Banker types. Moriarty and Willie, or whatever the hell Harry’s calling Robie nowadays, have already voiced their loathing for the scenes establishing Lindsey’s relationship with her gal pals, and they’re right as talk radio; at the risk of losing Ione Skye hottin’ it up in workout garb, these moments, so ineptly staged I bet the Farrelly’s were sabotaging them in principal, have got to go. They’re momentum killers in what is chiefly a guy film.
The movie really takes off once baseball season starts, mostly because there’s precious little in the way of conflict up until this point, save for a minor class disparity. This turns out to be a deft stroke on the Farrelly’s part. The audience gets so accustomed to the winsome Ben of the winter, that when his baseball season persona erupts during a SPORTSCENTER piece on Spring Training, we’re as horrified as Lindsay. Clearly, she would never have fallen for *this* Ben, nor would the audience have ever built up any sympathy for such a loser (kudos, by the way, to Fallon for not reprising his Southie character from SNL). When Lindsay confesses her shock to Ben, he’s surprised; he thought he’d adequately explained his zealotry. But, especially when dealing with a baseball naïf like Lindsay, such behavior falls well outside the societal norm.
As the season progresses, both characters make admirable attempts at compromise, but Ben’s fanaticism knows no half-measures. Like all sports fans, his boundless enthusiasm is tied to his youth, which, for a Red Sox fan, is nothing but cruel, unceasing, cosmic heartbreak. Ben’s whole life has been defined by losing, a fact that confers a wistful fatalism on his relationship with Lindsay (foreshadowed hilariously when she pooh-poohs “The Curse of the Bambino” in earshot of Ben’s season ticket brethren, spurring a great blow-by-blow recounting of every indignity from 1918). No matter how good it was in the offseason, these kids are as doomed as the Sox come October.
But 2004 was when things finally changed (forcing, as you probably know by now, the Farrelly’s into last second rewrite); it’s the year fate took a holiday, allowing the Red Sox to come back from three down to the Yankees. Still, even with the knowledge that Ben’s childhood dreams are about to come true, the Farrelly’s, perpetuators of many an arsenic-tinged happy ending, keep us sufficiently off-balance as they frantically guide us to the Fenway-set finale, the uncertainty hinging on this question: how much of a victory are they prepared to grant Ben, and, really, how much of one does he deserve?
There is talk that FEVER PITCH may be getting its balls chopped off, literally. Fox may very well assent to a certain someone’s demands to turn this into a chick flick, which, for a film debuting *just* after Opening Day, is the most ludicrous notion I’ve entertained since Boston’s eventual ALCS victory over the Yankees. Granted, that materialized, but this production has already been freighted with enough miracles; the fate of FEVER PITCH is a no-brainer. It’s a baseball movie, and a damn good one.
If only MAJOR LEAGUE had been born under such an auspicious sign.
Faithfully submitted,
Mr. Beaks
