Review: Evening (2007)

Last Friday night, I was behind on my work, and while everyone at the office trekked down to Houston to catch a very expensive Police reunion show, I stayed behind and got several extra hours of video editing done. At about 10:30, I had about had it with staring at computer screens, so I wandered over to the little theater across the street to watch a movie. The only movie I hadn't seen that I had any interest in was Evening, a 'looking back on your past', period drama-type movie so middle-aged-woman-oriented that it made On Golden Pond look like Mean Girls. I grabbed a coffee and bought a ticket from the automated teller so that I wouldn't have to face an actual person.

I filed into the theater with about 47 middle aged women, maybe six of which had managed to drag their husbands, as well as two young teen girls who I could only imagine were die-hard Claire Danes fans. I had somehow had the foresight to carry a newspaper into the theater with me, and since I was getting some bewildered looks from the people around me, I spent most of my time before the movie started looking around the theater and pretending to make copious note on an imaginary pad of paper inside the paper. I figured at least some people would buy that I was a local movie reviewer, at any rate, people stopped looking over at me, possibly because they figured it impolite to stare at a lone man pretending to make notes in a newspaper.

Since I spend so much time faking, I might as well review the film for real: It's good but unremarkable. It's directed by first-time Hungarian director Lajos Koltai, who's spent the last 40 years of his life as a European director of photography, and the mastery of his visual craft is apparent; the film's rocky oceanside location is breathtaking, and Koltai gets all Days of Heaven on us as often as possible, a good many scenes (generally the unimportant ones that have no other purpose) are shot at golden hour. But I read him as a first-time-out-director during the first reel of this movie. You could just see it.

The movie is written as a performance piece, and the actors rise to the challenge as best they can, but the script never really makes that much sense, and there's a bewildering disconnect to their actions from scene to scene. Fortunately, the actors involved are pros without comparison: Danes, Glenn Close, Meryl Streep, Vanessa Redgrave, Toni Collette, Eileen Atkins, etc. You can't shake this crew, they can make you believe anything. And so you buy the whole movie, even though there's no real reason to.

Amidst the steady and cautiously emotional performances are two actors who unequivocally give their roles everything they possibly can. The first, Hugh Dancy, fills his role of the alcoholic little brother with tragic pathos and a decidedly Quixotic passion for greatness. He played the best drunk I've ever seen, sweating and swearing his desperate way through each scene, stealing every single one them.

The other is Mamie Gummer, who as far as I can tell was cast purely because she's Meryl Streep's daughter and is therefore capable of playing her younger version in a story that jumps back and forth through time. But Gummer turns out to be the real star of the show, bringing a refreshing earnest joy to every moment she's on screen. I'll be very disappointed of this film doesn't land her a lot of very good roles. She needs to be in more movies.

I mentioned to Kate that I'd gone out and seen Evening all by myself, and mentioned that I spent a good deal of the time wondering if doing so was the gayest thing I'd ever done.

"I don't know anything about it. Who's in it?"

"Uh... Glenn Close, Meryl Streep, Claire Danes, Toni Collette, Vanessa Redgr-"

Kate cut me off. "Short of actually having sex with another man, that's the gayest thing you could ever possibly have done."

We all love history, don't we?

I was in Kroger tonight, picking up milk and eggs and a few other things that I needed, and was fortunate enough to find a wide open register, so I didn't have to go through self-checkout like I normally do. The cashier, a woman in her sixties, rang up all my items and glanced at the total as it up. "Nineteen twenty-seven," she said, then looked over at me thoughtfully. "A very good year."

"Mmm," I nodded, since as far as I could remember the only memorable event taking place in 1927 was Babe Ruth hitting 60 homers on his way to leading one of the great Yankee teams of all time to a World Series title, and I was fairly certain that wasn't what she referring to, and I didn't want to ask "was that the year you were born?" Instead, I swiped my Kroger card, which dropped the price to $18.66.

"Eighteen sixty-six," I said conversationally. "Not a very good year." I meant, of course, that 1866 was the beginning of a long Reconstructionist period under Andrew Johnson, and not a very good time for America. Actually, what I really meant was "I feel I am socially obligated to comment on the year in relation to whatever monetary unit comes up next, and since $18.66 is the total, I guess I'm forced to stand here in this supermarket line at midnight and comment on Reconstruction." But her reaction was a little startling, as she looked me forbiddingly straight in the eye and replied "No. It wasn't. Not for us."

This sent me into a moment of quiet panic, as I realized I had somehow made a sudden miscalculation and brought up some terrible event from the past that I didn't remember. Who was "us?" What had happened in 1866? Perhaps there was some significant event I had forgotten? Or was I missing some major piece of Texas history? I stood there in silence, open-mouthed, when suddenly I was saved as the woman launched into this paragraph that I found so breathtaking I memorized it immediately:

"Yeah, 1866 with the Pony Express. What do you call it? Y'know, Paul Revere. When we threw all the tea overboard into the water because of the Queen. Because the Queen sent all the prisoners to America and Australia."

She stopped abruptly and considered this. "No, that's not right. That was back in the 1600's." We paused for a moment, together, and considered this new piece of information.

"1700's," I offered, as if I had just thought of it. She mulled this suggestion over for a moment.

"1700's," she murmured, as if tasting it. "1700's. Mmmm." Suddenly, she smiled and looked at me. "1776!"

"Hey, that's right!" I replied, as if she had unlocked some long-forgotten tidbit of information from my brain, like the guy who played Bond for one movie, or who sat behind me in 4th grade.

She smiled modestly and inclined her head. "I watch a lot of History Channel," she explained, refusing to take credit for the breakthrough. We chatted for a moment about the wonders available on the History Channel as I paid up and packed my groceries in the cart.

I started to push the cart away when the lady sighed loudly and quite longingly behind me. I stopped and turned around. She smiled at me again. "I love history," she said earnestly, clearly glad to have found a person of similar number-based mindset. Then she turned away and went back to work.

1866, by the way, is the year of the invention of root beer, and the year the urinal was patented. So if I go through a supermarket line and that number ever comes up again, I'll finally have something to say.

To the people who left...

On the same day that Frank Thomas hit 500 homers, Craig Biggio inducted himself into the 3,000 hits club - a pretty exclusive group to be joining, full of names that make you go "oh yeah - that guy! Yeah, he was good." But most of the names have faded from memory completely, 'cause singles hitters three-quarters of a century ago lack the snap of command that our home run hitters had. It's the flip side of the problem from my last post - we don't like our new sluggers who might've cheated because we love the ones who came before them: Ruth and Aaron and Mays and Mantle and Williams. Whereas I doubt before Biggio got there on Thursday most people could name 10 of those 26 players. Tris Speaker? Nap Lajoie? Cap Anson? When's the last time you thought about Cap Anson? That's what I thought.

Because this is becoming more of a prestigious club - outside of Rose, a lot of the names at the top of this list are people who have been dead for a long time: Cobb, Musial, Wagner, etc. So this moment has a decidedly different feel from Thomas' breakthrough. Really, there are a number of differences between the Thomas moment and the Biggio moment. The biggest one would have to be that I was there to see Biggio do it.

Steph, who moves into the group called "the most wonderful people I know" for this one, offered me a ticket to come along and see the game. I figured it was unlikely that Biggio would have a three-hit game and get to 3,000; but it seemed worth the chance. I blew off all my plans and went.

I was right, he didn't have a three-hit game. He had a five-hit game, and he did it in style. Forgotten in the midst of the theatrics of the evening was that Biggio hit in the tying run with his 3,000 hit - and it was he who got the first two-out hit in the 12th inning to start the rally that won the game for them.

The best part of the moment was Biggio himself - having successfully hit his historic single, he tried to stretch it into a double - a beautifully classic competitive moment: "it's my 3,000 hit, but I've got to get into scoring position, even if I didn't actually hit it anywhere far enough to be a double." He was out by a mile.

His teammates and family streamed out onto the field, and Biggio hugged and kissed his kids and his weeping wife before wandering through his the crowd around him hugging teammates and coaches. I'm an old softie sometimes, and the sight of a faithful athlete crying and waving to the fans that he's played in front of for twenty years brought a distinct lump to my throat. And up until that moment, I'd never particularly been a Biggio fan. But it was one of those moments, standing there clapping and yelling with 40,000 Houstonians. It made me say "y'know, I could get attached to this team."

Biggio made a dash for the dugout and grabbed Jeff Bagwell and bodily hauled him out onto the field to bask in the applause, and I suddenly got what the moment was about. These were two guys who had played their whole lives for these people, had never been disloyal or fought about money or done anything but toil every day to turn generally subpar teams into playoff contenders. And they'd never seen anything for it: there'd never been any those big contracts or World Series rings on big clubs that the more mercenary major league players had collected. Two Hall of Fame players working day in and day out for these fans, and this was their reward. The unabashed adulation from the throats of 40,000 local fans. The recognition that what they'd done had meant a lot to the people in this city. I started tearing up a little.

And then I noticed people leaving. And when I say people leaving, I don't mean "people with small children taking them home to bed." I mean "people who said 'eh, I saw history, screw the rest of the game.'" And not just a couple. 15,000 people left the stadium over the next ten minutes, a quick-moving, steady flood of fans disappearing even as Biggio continued to stand and wave on the field. More steadfast fans started standing up and yelling at them as they went by for being fickle, but everyone just kept their head down and didn't make eye contact.

I wondered if Biggio could see all the people leaving from where he stood on the field. I hoped he couldn't. I hoped he didn't know.

The Astros ending up winning in the 12th inning on a grand slam from Carlos Lee in front of a sparse crowd of about 10,000 people. Every time Biggio came up, we all stood up and gave him a resounding cheer, chanting his name as loud as we could in honor of what he'd done that day. But it sounded weak and hollow in comparison to the ruckus we were causing before, and I felt sad for Biggio that no one was watching him fight back in the bottom of the twelfth and score the tying run. I felt sad that even on the biggest night in his career, the night when everything was supposed to be about him, nobody had stuck around to cheer him on.

Cheering for sports is a silly thing, and everyone knows it. But it seems like if you're going to cheer for them, if you're going to believe in them, then you should stick around. You should chant your players' names and boo the pitchers who throw brushbacks and let the ump know that your boys are always safe when stealing second and he should know that.

It seems that if you're going to be involved in such a silly, ridiculous thing, you should do it for real. You should stick around. You should let your players know that it means something to you that they stuck around for you, that they ignored the money and the fame and kept on toiling right here under your nose. You should let them know it wasn't for nothing.

And you should stick around and see what happens when your boy tries to stretch a single into a double in order to win a game on a night where everyone would be fine if he worried more about his own statistics than the final outcome. You should stick around and root for a guy who's more about winning than ringing up big numbers. You should stick around because you're the reason he's trying so hard, and you owe him that. Just that one night. The night he finally got his reward.

Just that one night. You should've stayed.

500 Homers

Frank Thomas hit his 500th homer today, putting him 20th all-time on the HR list. Ken Griffey is at 584, about to pass Frank Robinson and be 6th all-time. Sammy Sosa has 600 homers now, 5th all-time. Rafael Palmeiro has 569, 10th. If Jim Thome or Manny Ramirez hit a hot streak, they'll pass 500 homers by the end of the season, A-Rod's on pace for 60 homers this year and a lock to hit 500 by the end of July. And you know about Bonds.

And yet I have a tough time getting excited for the Hall of Fame for some of these guys. Have we reached a day where big home run numbers just don't mean a lock for Cooperstown? These guys have hit home runs right and left, powered through season upon season, and yet I don't know if I can see all of them in the Hall.

Sure it's hard to compare eras... Babe Ruth hit 136 triples in his career, A-Rod 26, but it's hard to argue that Ruth was a great deal faster than A-Rod. And A-Rod could be much worse: McGwire only hit 6. But it's more than that.

Jim Thome has struck out more times (1,909) than he's gotten a hit (1,806). So did Jose Canseco, at 1,942 strikeouts versus 1,877 hits. Sammy Sosa has struck out 2,194 times in his career, the only player comparable is Reggie Jackson, everyone else's numbers are much lower, some a lot lower - Joe Dimaggio averaged a home run (361) for every one of his strikeouts (369).

500 homers is traditionally a lock for the Hall, yet I - and, I feel, baseball fans everywhere - remain unexcited. In this era of steroids and enhancers, power numbers just don't impress anymore. We can't get excited for a guy who hits more home runs than ever before because we feel it's unearned, that he's tainted the game. But more has been tainted than that, every player who blows us away with home run totals is viewed with suspicion, disrespect, through no fault of his own.

You see, some of these guys deserve the Hall, deserve it badly. Try to make the case that Griffey used steroids. You can't. A glance at his career numbers shows that if he'd started using steroids at the same point Bonds did, it would be Griffey on the cusp of immortality right now. Steroids or no steroids, Griffey is one of the greatest hitters ever to play the game. And yet people still fret that the injury-prone center fielder is a question mark for the Hall because he had all of his best years at the beginning of his career. Whereas Bonds' place is secure, though I doubt he'll draw a lot of cheers on that day. It's a shame.

Some of the greatest hitters in the world are playing in front of us right now, yet we can't admit it to ourselves. We're all too afraid that we're getting tricked into caring about players who'll be revealed to be fakes, cheats, people not worthy of our adulation.

Later this year, Bonds will hit number home run 756, will pass Hank Aaron and become the greatest home run hitter of all time. And we will hate him for it. And we'll hate Sosa for his 600, and Griffey for his 584, and Thome and A-Rod and Manny for their 500. We won't have any reason to, but we've lost our passion for these great numbers, we can't believe in them anymore.

Ultimately, that's the true legacy that Bonds is leaving behind him.