Eight Men Out

I have been lucky enough to grow up in the great state of Illinois, home of some of the best stories in American sports.  I came of age in a time where the Bears put up arguably the most dominant single season in the NFL, the Bulls had two three-peat championship runs, and the eternally cursed Cubs and White Sox continued to break hearts across the nation (until those bastard Sox actually won the World Series...grumble, grumble, Cubs fan).  This past Spring, I was lucky enough to get to visit the baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, and it was pretty awesome.  I won't lie, I teared up on a few occasions.  This weekend, I was very happy to learn that Chicago Cubs great (and one of the worst --- but lovable --- baseball announcers ever), Ron Santo, will finally be inducted into the Hall.  That got me thinking of other Chicago greats who have yet to receive baseball's highest honor.  Of course, that lead me to Eight Men Out, the supposed "inside story" about how the 1919 White Sox intentionally lost the World Series and conspired with professional gamblers to make a profit on their loss.

Sorry, wrong Black Sox movie

The owner of the White Sox in 1919 was Charles Comiskey (Clifton James), and the man was a cheapskate.  He had a world-class team, but insisted on paying them as little as humanly possible.  For instance, the ace of his pitching staff, Eddie Cicotte (David Strathairn) had a clause in his contract that gave him a bonus if he earned 30 wins; Comiskey had him benched for the last few weeks of the regular season because he reached 29.  When the team was offered bonuses for winning the American League title, Comiskey instead gave them only cheap champagne.  Basically, Comiskey was a big enough douche to deserve having his stadium renamed "The Cell." 

When the gambling syndicate run by Arnold Rothstein (Michael Lerner) learns of the discontent on the heavily favored Sox, he makes an offer (through proxies, of course) to select players; if they lose the World Series on purpose, they will be paid far more handsomely than if they actually win.

Maybe then, they could afford some shirts that fit

Some players, like Cicotte, Chick Gandil (Michael Rooker), and Swede Risberg (Don Harvey) go along with the plan willingly.  Buck Weaver (John Cusack) doesn't agree to go along with the plot, but he doesn't report it, either.  The team's star, Shoeless Joe Jackson (D.B. Sweeney) seems too dumb to understand any innuendo or threats, and plays hard and gets paid.  How does the Series turn out?  Well, it's ancient history now, but Eight Men Out plays it for all the drama it can.  But win or lose, the suspiciously poor play from the White Sox will have repercussions for the team and all of baseball for years to come.

Example: chaw is deemed mandatory for jerkwads

If you are unfamiliar with the story of the 1919 "Black Sox," then you're basically out of luck.  While Eight Men Out does kind of touch on why they may or may not have thrown the Series, it isn't exactly the easiest movie to follow if you are not a baseball fan.  Chances are, you will not realize the significance of who the characters are; the cast is vast and recognizable, but there are darn few introductions for them.  I would have loved to hear an announcer explain who these guys were, or have one of the sportswriters (who actually play essential --- but underdeveloped --- roles in this drama) give the audience the lowdown on some of these guys.  The script explains that Shoeless Joe is one of the greatest players ever, but why?  It's not shown on-camera.  As for the others, the script doesn't provide nearly as much. 

Weaver could have held a boombox over his head, for all this script cared

That's not to say that the performances were poor.  John Cusack, despite being a lifelong Cubs fan, is very good as the earnest Buck Weaver, and his protests and effort are what makes this plot chug along.  D.B. Sweeney was convincingly dumb as Shoeless Joe, but he lacked presence on the screen, making him seem a pale shadow of Roy Hobbs, a fictional character based on the man.  David Stathairn gave the most impressive performance, one that reeked of conflict and pride.  Michael Rooker and Don Harvey were fine as the detestable bad guys, although I would have liked maybe a moment of hesitation before they jumped on the "let's lose the World Series" bandwagon. 

Above: the most emotive Rooker gets in this film

Charlie Sheen plays a surprisingly small role in this, especially when you consider his starring roles in Platoon and Wall Street only a few years prior.  John Mahoney, who was apparently never young, was pretty good as the trusting White Sox manager.  Christoper Lloyd and Richard Edson (the parking attendant in another Chicago classic, Ferris Bueller's Day Off) are okay as small-time grifters, but neither is utilized much in this movie.  Director John Sayles cast himself (and Chicago institution Studs Terkel) as one of the two baseball newspaper columnists who helped break this story, although their contributions in this film are underplayed.

I really wish this scene was a highlight

When I was seven years-old, baseball was all I could think about.  I sponged up knowledge like...well, a very absorbent material.  While old age and beer have killed off some of my brain cells, I still retain much of my historical baseball knowledge.  Rewatching Eight Men Out should have been an emotional trip down memory lane for me, but it wasn't.  John Sayles directed his actors well enough, but he failed as a writer to make me care about any of them.

Perhaps the biggest problem with Eight Men Out is its soft focus.  Is this the tale of the entire 1919 Sox team, or is it about the innocents who were unfairly banned from the sport?  The point of view character is, at times, Buck Weaver, but who the hell remembers him?  This movie was made seventy years after Weaver was expelled from the sport, and occasionally showing him as the main character isn't enough to generate sympathy for him.  The most famous player on the team, Shoeless Joe Jackson, is relegated to a very minor role in the script; that's like making Pride of the Yankees with Lou Gehrig as the fifth-billed character.  Who is this movie supposed to be about?  The entire team?  Then Sayles should have explained the characters better in the script.  Shoeless Joe?  Then he should have played a more important role.  Weaver?  Then the focus should have stayed with him as he struggled to succeed despite his teammates.

There are many more problems that the focus.  Even with my near-encyclopedic baseball knowledge, I failed to recognize many of the characters in this film.  That's a pretty big problem; if I can't pick out some of these players, how can a casual viewer hope to understand what's going on?  The script is full of elliptical conversations that allude to the gambling conspiracy, but rarely acknowledge it outright.  As much as I appreciate scripts that assume the viewers are clever, the details of this story are left fairly obtuse.

...like whatever he is rubbing on the ball

Another problem I had with Eight Men Out is that it, really, isn't a baseball movie.  The script is too lazy to focus on any one game, so it instead allows every play shown on-screen to be of major importance; batters hit the first pitch every time, and pitchers give up crucial runs with every throw.  This is a movie about the scandal.  Unfortunately, there is a lot of baseball in-between the conception of the idea and the execution, and both suffer for it.  This isn't a bad movie, though.  Sayles clearly cared about this team and this story, but his passion was executed poorly.  At best, I have to say that this is a mediocre movie about a potentially fantastic film concept.

On a personal note, as a baseball fan with his head in the past (my prized baseball possession is a Ryne Sandberg 1960s-era throwback jersey), I believe that all eight men implicated in the Black Sox scandal should be eligible for the Hall of Fame in 2019.  I think a 100-year ban is more than enough; the only two that sportswriters would even consider inducting would be Shoeless Joe and Buck Weaver, both of whom had a stellar, error-free World Series performance.  And baseball writers are notoriously vindictive, so if they forgive the players, so should the sport.  At least that way, we could expect to stop hearing Pete Rose's whining in about seventy-five years.  Besides, the commissioner that banned the 1919 Sox was a total bastard; he allowed Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker to keep playing after reports of them gambling on the sport surfaced.  Come on, Major League Baseball!  Act like the museum you are an induct the players that deserve it; if you want to hold them accountable for shady actions, include a steroids or gambling section and let the fans determine their legacy!  ...and I'm off my soapbox.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer

When I was told by a friend that Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer was a good movie, I was pretty skeptical.  It stars Michael Rooker, for Pete's sake (and, of course, I am referring to the Disney Pete), a man who had a brief period in the early 90s where he was cast in small supporting roles, but since then has been in mostly direct-to-DVD fodder.  "But who else is in the movie, Brian?"  No one.  This is a Michael Rooker vehicle, all the way.  Despite this glaring flaw, the movie received almost universally good reviews when it was eventually released in 1990 (it was filmed in 1986).  So, how does a moderately talentless actor carry an independent film into the good graces of every critic?

The movie starts out slowly.  The first scene has Henry (Rooker) driving around, doing his thing, with several still shots of murder scenes interspersed; these aren't quick shots, meant to startle you, but slow zoom outs that show dead bodies.  The murder scenes only show the "after" part of the murder, but the soundtrack switches to sounds of women screaming and struggling against an attacker.  Obviously, it is implied that Henry is the (serial) killer.  Henry shares an apartment with his friend Otis (Tom Towles), whose sister, Becky (Tracy Arnold), has just moved in with them.  Becky is clearly attracted to Henry, who is kind and gentlemanly to her, but gets nervous whenever she pays too much attention to him.  Becky learns from Otis that he met Henry is prison; Henry was in for murdering his mother.  Becky doesn't believe it and eventually asks Henry about it.  Henry confirms that he killed his mother for being a mean whore, but he changes the murder weapon each time he summarizes the story.  Hmm...interesting.  For a while, the movie continues like this, with Henry doing his thing and murder scenes being sprinkled in every so often.

After about half an hour of this, Henry and Otis decide to pick up some hookers and do their business in Henry's car.  Henry suddenly starts choking his date and kills her.  Before Otis or the other prostitute can react, Henry lunges over the car seat and breaks the neck of Otis' date.  The two men dump the bodies outside the car and drive away.  Now, if I was Otis*, I would have freaked the hell out.  Maybe I would have kept a calm exterior (I certainly don't want to share in the state of being murdered), but my insides would be waiting for the opportune time to piss and crap my pants.  Henry takes Otis to McDonald's, though, and some fries seem to calm him down considerably.  It isn't that Otis has never killed before (um, okay, now I have a new first question for any future roommates), but this wasn't self-defense.  Henry tells Otis that it's them against the world, so it's always self-defense.

Henry then takes Otis on as his serial killing apprentice.  He teaches him to change his modus operandi from victim to victim, so the police can't detect a pattern.  The two start sharing murder victims, either out of spur-of-the-moment rage, or with careful planning.  It is these scenes that give the film its disturbing tone and well-earned reputation.

This story is loosely based on the confessions of Henry Lee Lucas, who was at one time believed to be the most prolific serial killer ever, with anywhere from 14 to 600 possible victims attributed to him (most of his confessions have since come under scrutiny).  Despite the real-world basis for the movie, the lack of a dramatic arc (which adds to the "real life" feel) and the documentary tone of the movie (caused, in part, by the cheap camera) --- all of which make the actions in this film seem disturbingly plausible --- what bothered me most was killer's approach to murder.  Henry kills in a fashion similar to how I rent movies.  He knows that he likes to do it and, whenever one catches his eye, he makes the time to take care of business.  Very nonchalant and rarely with fore-planning, and he always seems perfectly calm until he attacks. 

That attitude is present in the entire film.  With Henry's seemingly random taste in victims, it quickly becomes apparent that anyone can be his prey, for any reason.  That's scary enough, but when he is paired with Otis, things get worse.  Otis takes joy in killing like a child takes joy in going to Dairy Queen.  At one point, Henry and Otis team up to murder a family; it's all fun and games until someone almost escapes, which causes Henry to get businesslike with his killing.  They videotaped the act and watched it afterward; when it was over, Otis rewound it to watch it again.  At no point is any of this enjoyable to watch.  This isn't a movie that you're going to want to share with your friends.  This is a draining experience, made more so by the randomness of the victims..

There are a lot of things to like in this movie.  The acting and directing, while not amazing, are perfect for this film.  Director John McNaughton (who directed Wild Things and...um...that's pretty much it) obviously made many of his choices thanks to a very low budget, but it worked out for the best.  Most of the murders are done off-screen, without interrupting the story.  That allows the sheer number of victims to overwhelm the viewer and saves time and money from the shooting schedule.  The violence that is shown on screen seems pretty realistic, although not terribly gory --- they save the gore for the climactic kill, which is very, very bloody.  The documentary tone of the film adds to the sense of realism, which is ultimately the reason this movie is so disturbing.  I particularly liked how there were some little unexplained things here and there, nothing important enough to distract you from the movie, but things that normal movies would explain.  The most obvious example of this is Henry's explanation of his mother's murder; I imagine that he mixes up his method for killing her because he pictures her when he kills most of his victims, but that is just my own speculation.  The story never returns to that point.

Against all odds, I was very impressed by Michael Rooker's acting in this movie.  It wasn't just his matter-of-fact killings, though.  I liked his interactions with Becky, too.  He was awkward when she showed him affection, gallant when responding to Otis' rudeness, and clearly not listening to a word she said when she tried to converse with him; at one point, Becky confesses her love for Henry and his response is a distracted, "I guess I love you, too."  Least convincing "I love you" ever.  Tom Towles was also very convincing as the gleefully morbid Otis.  In many ways, he was more disturbing than Henry, which is quite an accomplishment.  As for Tracy Arnold's portrayal of Becky...well, the movie's not really about her, so it doesn't matter.

Again, I have to stress that this is not a movie to watch for a fun time.  This is a slow-moving film that does a great job of capturing some eerily plausible killers and their attitudes.  This isn't a move for people looking for cheap scares or gore, either.  This is a movie that makes you sit quietly for a few moments after finishing.  For what it is, though, it is certainly effective.  I would have preferred a more distinct dramatic arc to give the story a more defined plot, but it was effective despite that lack.  I'm glad that I watched it, but I have no plans to see it again.

* I'm not Otis, though.  I don't pick up street walkers.  And even if I did, I wouldn't feel comfortable getting my money's worth in a well-lit alley.  And even if I was comfortable with that, I wouldn't want to do it in my car, which I would then have to clean.  And even if I was okay with hookers, the alley, and the car, I certainly would prefer a private experience over one I would share with my roommate.  Fine.  Call me a prude.