There was the hope that literary fiction, post-colonial literature, and science fiction could come together in a brilliant – perhaps wondrous – way. Junot Díaz tempts us with such a possibility – a gorgeous portrayal of a life that is both real and yet, by it's very nature, fantastical. In a way, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao manages this task.
But there is the part of me that feels let down. The picture the catalog-copy paints is one of a single hero, struggling to live up to the ideals that he reads about as the consummate fan-boy. I acknowledge this struggle may be subtle – that he might possibly lose -- but there's nothing disappointing about that. Heck, I concede that Díaz was not specifically writing science fiction – he's using it as an allusion, an analogy. As he writes: “What's more sci-fi than the Dominican Republic?”
Apparently everything.
In its Otherness, I can see what he's trying to point out. An evil, monstrous dictator who is both omniscient and terrible – yes, I can see a Trujillo/Sauron comparison. But, the fact is, Sauron is an idea born from reality, Trujillo is the reality (not that Sauron is based on Trujillo specifically, but on the many dictators throughout history). The power of science fiction isn't to create monsters – it's to tame them. To escape them, defeat them, or at worst, literally close the book on them: allowing their victory in return for the solace of the illusionary safety of our reality.
Díaz, in essence, does the opposite of science fiction. Sci-fi isn't the suspension of disbelief, but rather the creation of belief. When successful – always an important step – sci-fi draws its reader in, regardless of the unbelievable nature, alien races, or paranormal systems. Díaz does draw you in – he's a fine writer – but he doesn't create belief in the Dominican Republic. If anything, the world he points out is unnatural to us, and perhaps too much so. And, ironically, the problem isn't that Trujillo isn't a monster, but rather that he's painted as both a “monster” and a Monster: a human devoid of humanity and a being is so completely without definition that it's impossible to come to grips with him.
I think what also hurts is the lack, not of a hero – many sci-fi works lack heroes – but of a protagonist. Because Oscar is not the center of the story. If there was a protagonist, it would be his whole family, but that doesn't completely compute, either, because they are often at odds with each other. There is a focus on Oscar, but the book is more the story of his past (and his family's past). Much of the action centers outside of Oscar's sphere (and, as is the case with his mother's story) his time). But, unlike the adventuring parties in science fiction , this cast of characters does not does not work in conjunction with each other, and their goals are very different. Overall, the book fails in creating incredibly sympathetic characters.
On a more personal note: I wanted more geek! There's something ego-boosting about being shouted out in by an artist, whether it's a band screaming out the name of the city they happen to be playing in or an author mentioning things that you can connect with. When I first read the description of The Brief Wondrous Life, I thought it was going to be an homage to all things nerdy. I was ready and willing to smile every time I could say: Hey, I know that reference! Instead, what we were thrown were little dork-tidbits surrounding a meaty-core of post-colonial burger. And that saddens me a bit.
This isn't a terrible book. Most people I have encountered who have also read it have loved it. But I might be too much a part of the world Díaz is describing. No, I'm not Dominican, but I have read a great deal in the genre. And then, of course, I was raised in the science fiction genre. In writing a hybrid, Díaz has the freedom of picking and choosing the best of the many genres he wishes to sample, but also has to contend with the fans of those disparate works. In the end, Díaz's experiment falls short of coming together as a whole, and that's so disappointing for a book that I approached with such high expectations.
Makes me happy I borrowed it instead of buying. So do yourself a favor, patronize your local library, but keep the book from permanent residence on your shelves.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
No Reservations
Ugh. I know – even I feel a bit queasy about my title. Then again, when puns are making you nauseous, you know they’re doing something right.
So what’s the deal with this movie? Critics seem hell-bent on lashing out at Reservation Road as if a) the movie is claiming to be something earth-shattering and ground-breaking and b) it’s personally offended them. Maybe I’m not the world’s finest critic, but I think what people were expecting from that movie was more than they should have. It is a fairly simple tale of two families connected by a tragedy: one is the victim, one is the perpetrator. On a dark Connecticut road, a young boy is killed in a hit-and-run, and while his family tries to cope with his death (and pursue the “killer”), the driver is trying to work out his own demons – both with his estranged ex-wife, his son, and his guilt.
Yes, it is easy to get lulled into a trap. Based on a highly acclaimed novel by John Burnham Schwartz, it also stars three relatively big name actors – people you would probably see in a trailer and say: Wow, those three? It must be good. And I think that was part of the initial disappointment for some: although it does star Joaquin Phoenix, Jennifer Connelly, and Mark Ruffalo (and, if you want to consider Mira Sorvino a “star,” Mira Sorvino), these are not the actors’ finest roles. While I think they all do adequate jobs with what they are given, after a while, crying and angst is not really the pinnacle of acting: somber is easy; comedy is hard.
Still, they are not terrible either. And, as most movies are the sum of their actors, I think this needs to be brought into consideration. For a movie that is high on melodrama, it’s not overwrought with cheese. It does get a bit cloying that much of the “dialogue” consists of crying and “screeching,” but, I mean, their fucking son just died! How are people supposed to react?
And that’s what bothers me so much about the reviews – this total disregard for the situation of the movie. The plot might ring a bit false, but does the way the actors react to the situations they’re given work? I think, for the most part, the do. Mark Ruffalo, as the murderer, does a particularly good job working with what he has, and his guilt and fear seem completely normal for such an abnormal situation.
I went in with low-expectations. The “word-on-the-street” buzz was such that I was seriously contemplating if I wanted to go. There are moments during the movie that I laughed out loud at the ridiculous coincidences that sprung up – everyone is connected to everyone in this movie. Does this come across as preposterous? Yes – it definitely does. After the first few times, you just know what’s going to happen next – and it does. So, for instance, when Phoenix’s character talks about using a lawyer to help keep on the police, whose office does he end up in? That’s right, the lawyer we already met: Ruffalo’s character. I’d like to be kinder here, but that is the level this movie works at.
But, again, that’s the level the story works at. Think about it this way: if there weren’t all these “coincidences,” there wouldn’t be a movie. Or, rather, there wouldn’t be this movie, based off of Schwartz’s book. Would another movie have been better? Possibly. And yet it’s hard for me to shake off the fact that this was a psychological thriller, and that, unlike a novel (where you get internal monologue), we need to see the emotions in raw forms. Think of it this way: would it have seemed more realistic for people going through this ordeal to just sit down with each other and talk about their problems? Just writing that seems absurd to me. Think about it in another way: is there a good movie version of Crime and Punishment? If there is, I can’t think of it. And the reason for that is because how do you translate a novel about one man’s struggles with guilt into a movie? Remember, too: movies are not books. They are not cinematic novels. They are a completely separate medium that requires a different mindset.
After reading what I’ve written, I am actually a little at a loss as to where I say why I thought the movie was good. I guess it comes down to this: I walked away with a reaction that made sense for the movie. Say what you will, but for us “regular” movie-goers, there are some powerful emotions being thrown around, and I felt them strongly. I wasn’t amazed by this movie. I don’t think I’d ever see it again. I don’t even necessarily expect others to see it.
I just don’t want people to think it’s a bad movie. I think it set out to adapt a novel in a way that works on the big-screen, and for the most part, they succeeded. In a movie about a little kid getting killed, I think it does everything you would expect it to do. Don’t forget, too, that there are plenty of people out there who not only like melodrama, they thrive off of it (hence our culture’s obsession with celebrity gossip). Is the movie Oscar-worthy? Of course not. But it’s not the crap-fest that critics so eagerly dump upon it, either.
More like a crap-tea social.
So what’s the deal with this movie? Critics seem hell-bent on lashing out at Reservation Road as if a) the movie is claiming to be something earth-shattering and ground-breaking and b) it’s personally offended them. Maybe I’m not the world’s finest critic, but I think what people were expecting from that movie was more than they should have. It is a fairly simple tale of two families connected by a tragedy: one is the victim, one is the perpetrator. On a dark Connecticut road, a young boy is killed in a hit-and-run, and while his family tries to cope with his death (and pursue the “killer”), the driver is trying to work out his own demons – both with his estranged ex-wife, his son, and his guilt.
Yes, it is easy to get lulled into a trap. Based on a highly acclaimed novel by John Burnham Schwartz, it also stars three relatively big name actors – people you would probably see in a trailer and say: Wow, those three? It must be good. And I think that was part of the initial disappointment for some: although it does star Joaquin Phoenix, Jennifer Connelly, and Mark Ruffalo (and, if you want to consider Mira Sorvino a “star,” Mira Sorvino), these are not the actors’ finest roles. While I think they all do adequate jobs with what they are given, after a while, crying and angst is not really the pinnacle of acting: somber is easy; comedy is hard.
Still, they are not terrible either. And, as most movies are the sum of their actors, I think this needs to be brought into consideration. For a movie that is high on melodrama, it’s not overwrought with cheese. It does get a bit cloying that much of the “dialogue” consists of crying and “screeching,” but, I mean, their fucking son just died! How are people supposed to react?
And that’s what bothers me so much about the reviews – this total disregard for the situation of the movie. The plot might ring a bit false, but does the way the actors react to the situations they’re given work? I think, for the most part, the do. Mark Ruffalo, as the murderer, does a particularly good job working with what he has, and his guilt and fear seem completely normal for such an abnormal situation.
I went in with low-expectations. The “word-on-the-street” buzz was such that I was seriously contemplating if I wanted to go. There are moments during the movie that I laughed out loud at the ridiculous coincidences that sprung up – everyone is connected to everyone in this movie. Does this come across as preposterous? Yes – it definitely does. After the first few times, you just know what’s going to happen next – and it does. So, for instance, when Phoenix’s character talks about using a lawyer to help keep on the police, whose office does he end up in? That’s right, the lawyer we already met: Ruffalo’s character. I’d like to be kinder here, but that is the level this movie works at.
But, again, that’s the level the story works at. Think about it this way: if there weren’t all these “coincidences,” there wouldn’t be a movie. Or, rather, there wouldn’t be this movie, based off of Schwartz’s book. Would another movie have been better? Possibly. And yet it’s hard for me to shake off the fact that this was a psychological thriller, and that, unlike a novel (where you get internal monologue), we need to see the emotions in raw forms. Think of it this way: would it have seemed more realistic for people going through this ordeal to just sit down with each other and talk about their problems? Just writing that seems absurd to me. Think about it in another way: is there a good movie version of Crime and Punishment? If there is, I can’t think of it. And the reason for that is because how do you translate a novel about one man’s struggles with guilt into a movie? Remember, too: movies are not books. They are not cinematic novels. They are a completely separate medium that requires a different mindset.
After reading what I’ve written, I am actually a little at a loss as to where I say why I thought the movie was good. I guess it comes down to this: I walked away with a reaction that made sense for the movie. Say what you will, but for us “regular” movie-goers, there are some powerful emotions being thrown around, and I felt them strongly. I wasn’t amazed by this movie. I don’t think I’d ever see it again. I don’t even necessarily expect others to see it.
I just don’t want people to think it’s a bad movie. I think it set out to adapt a novel in a way that works on the big-screen, and for the most part, they succeeded. In a movie about a little kid getting killed, I think it does everything you would expect it to do. Don’t forget, too, that there are plenty of people out there who not only like melodrama, they thrive off of it (hence our culture’s obsession with celebrity gossip). Is the movie Oscar-worthy? Of course not. But it’s not the crap-fest that critics so eagerly dump upon it, either.
More like a crap-tea social.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
There's Gold in Them Thar' Hills!
Know what pisses me off about "The Hills"? Besides the fact that I'm a guy, and technically it's pretty gay that I watch "The Hills?" It's that it's reality television.
There is a persistent belief that reality television is, in fact, fake or scripted. Perhaps that is the case, and I doubt "The Hills" is in any way an exception (hello: Spenser and Heidi?), but there's a reason they call it "reality television." Not because it depicts any true reality (and, I'm sure I could get into a whole existential discussion about the "truth" of "reality"), but because the fakeness is of a questionable nature. There is clearly a scripted quality to the show -- such as Jason reappearing, not mentioning he has a girlfriend, and then announcing his engagement at his house-warming party. It's completely ludicrous to believe that he and Lauren would have ended up at the same restaurant as Spenser and Heidi (you know someone got a text saying they should go there).
And the obnoxiousness that is Heidi and Spenser is beyond compare. Is there a faker person than Spenser? Everything about him screams "I'm a douche-bag!" And not in a "I'm a suave, bad-ass douche-bag" -- no, he's a complete, dorkified, full-blown douche-bag. With ridiculous teeth and a face that begs for people to punch it.
He's corny.
Yet, Heidi sticks with him. Despite the fact that Lauren (in a kind of dick move, but at least she's honest) has hated on him from the get-go, meaning that Lauren and Heidi's friendship is over. Despite the fact that Heidi's family thinks it's a mistake, and has told her and Spenser -- numerous times -- that it's a bad idea. Most importantly, despite the fact that Spenser has yet to tell his parents that he's engaged to be married.
It's that last one that blows my mind. How can this not be fake? What girl would put up with that kind of nonsense. It's bad enough he doesn't have a job. It's bad enough he thought it would be cool with his fiance if he got a friend to do a graffiti mural on their living room wall (I'm a single guy, and I think that's fucking wack). But to propose marriage and never tell your parents? I don't get it. What's he trying to avoid or say with this? Moreover, once Heidi is aware of the fact, he still doesn't think it's all that imperative that he get on the horn and let his parents know they will soon have a daughter-in-law.
To me, that's insane. Not him not telling. That I can deal with, on one level or another. But who is this girl with no self-esteem that allows her entire life to fall to shambles and lets the cause of all her problems insult her by basically saying: the news of our impending marriage is not important enough to mention to my parents. That's crazy.
And yet, is it? Sure, it's a little weird how she doesn't seem to get mad at him, but I have a feeling people in a lot worse situations have gotten married. At least these two are pretty, B-list famous, and relatively wealthy. More to the point, this does not seem to be so out of line with what one could expect from certain girls.
For example: Audrina. Seemingly a cool chick (okay, I think she's hot, so she's "cool" in my eyes), and yet she's the most preposterous person when it comes to her relationships with guys. The most telling example of this is her interactions with Justin-Bobby (his name is Bobby, but he wants people to call him Justin; don't ask). This is a guy who is completely anti-social with everyone, including Audrina. At one point, they went on a trip to Vegas, and he ditched her there. As in, left her in Vegas, by herself. And she took him back.
Then, at a party they went to together, he leaves with another girl.
And she takes him back.
So the go to Vegas (again!) and all her friends hate him (because he's an anti-social dick), and she's practically willing to drop them all to be with him. In the end, she doesn't (kind of), but you could tell she wanted to.
Basically, she's a television camera away from being in a physically abusive relationship and convincing everyone that it's her fault. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but if this isn't a mentally abusive relationship, I'll . . . um, I'm not sure what I could "turn in," seeing I really don't have any credentials in this regard. Still, it certainly appears like a weak person being dominated by a strong person, and not in a sexy, leather-and-whips kind of way.
That's what makes me question the fakeness of this reality show. Because, as sad as the above situation is (because, like I said, she's pretty hot, and could probably find a guy who wouldn't treat her like crap), this is not something straight out of science fiction. This is a trope common throughout history. Chances are, you know someone like this. God knows I knew girls -- intelligent, beautiful girls -- who couldn't grasp that they were both going out with the same guy. Oh, they knew he was seeing the other girl (because the guy didn't try to hide it), but they each convinced themselves that "he really loves me." The bad boy thing is almost a biological inheritance from our more primitive ancestors.
So what if that also throws a lot of the Enlightenment out the window? This isn't a show for feminists, that's for damn sure. It's not about a woman's independence. Destiny's Child does not sing the theme song (Natasha Bedingfield does, a fairly conservative pop-star if there is such a thing). There is no political agenda with this show. Which means, of course, that the "reality," while faked, comes across as genuine, in an oddly perverted way.
So next time you watch "The Hills" -- and trust me, you should watch "The Hills;" Whitney's the shit -- remember that you are watching thousands of years of supposed human evolution getting shown the door. But you'll get to see it accompanied by L.C.'s all-purpose raised eyebrow (It's a question! It's approval! It's incredulity! It's everything and nothing and deserves it's own show!).
If you don't have a half-hour to spare for that, than maybe you ought to check how "real" your life is.
There is a persistent belief that reality television is, in fact, fake or scripted. Perhaps that is the case, and I doubt "The Hills" is in any way an exception (hello: Spenser and Heidi?), but there's a reason they call it "reality television." Not because it depicts any true reality (and, I'm sure I could get into a whole existential discussion about the "truth" of "reality"), but because the fakeness is of a questionable nature. There is clearly a scripted quality to the show -- such as Jason reappearing, not mentioning he has a girlfriend, and then announcing his engagement at his house-warming party. It's completely ludicrous to believe that he and Lauren would have ended up at the same restaurant as Spenser and Heidi (you know someone got a text saying they should go there).
And the obnoxiousness that is Heidi and Spenser is beyond compare. Is there a faker person than Spenser? Everything about him screams "I'm a douche-bag!" And not in a "I'm a suave, bad-ass douche-bag" -- no, he's a complete, dorkified, full-blown douche-bag. With ridiculous teeth and a face that begs for people to punch it.
He's corny.
Yet, Heidi sticks with him. Despite the fact that Lauren (in a kind of dick move, but at least she's honest) has hated on him from the get-go, meaning that Lauren and Heidi's friendship is over. Despite the fact that Heidi's family thinks it's a mistake, and has told her and Spenser -- numerous times -- that it's a bad idea. Most importantly, despite the fact that Spenser has yet to tell his parents that he's engaged to be married.
It's that last one that blows my mind. How can this not be fake? What girl would put up with that kind of nonsense. It's bad enough he doesn't have a job. It's bad enough he thought it would be cool with his fiance if he got a friend to do a graffiti mural on their living room wall (I'm a single guy, and I think that's fucking wack). But to propose marriage and never tell your parents? I don't get it. What's he trying to avoid or say with this? Moreover, once Heidi is aware of the fact, he still doesn't think it's all that imperative that he get on the horn and let his parents know they will soon have a daughter-in-law.
To me, that's insane. Not him not telling. That I can deal with, on one level or another. But who is this girl with no self-esteem that allows her entire life to fall to shambles and lets the cause of all her problems insult her by basically saying: the news of our impending marriage is not important enough to mention to my parents. That's crazy.
And yet, is it? Sure, it's a little weird how she doesn't seem to get mad at him, but I have a feeling people in a lot worse situations have gotten married. At least these two are pretty, B-list famous, and relatively wealthy. More to the point, this does not seem to be so out of line with what one could expect from certain girls.
For example: Audrina. Seemingly a cool chick (okay, I think she's hot, so she's "cool" in my eyes), and yet she's the most preposterous person when it comes to her relationships with guys. The most telling example of this is her interactions with Justin-Bobby (his name is Bobby, but he wants people to call him Justin; don't ask). This is a guy who is completely anti-social with everyone, including Audrina. At one point, they went on a trip to Vegas, and he ditched her there. As in, left her in Vegas, by herself. And she took him back.
Then, at a party they went to together, he leaves with another girl.
And she takes him back.
So the go to Vegas (again!) and all her friends hate him (because he's an anti-social dick), and she's practically willing to drop them all to be with him. In the end, she doesn't (kind of), but you could tell she wanted to.
Basically, she's a television camera away from being in a physically abusive relationship and convincing everyone that it's her fault. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but if this isn't a mentally abusive relationship, I'll . . . um, I'm not sure what I could "turn in," seeing I really don't have any credentials in this regard. Still, it certainly appears like a weak person being dominated by a strong person, and not in a sexy, leather-and-whips kind of way.
That's what makes me question the fakeness of this reality show. Because, as sad as the above situation is (because, like I said, she's pretty hot, and could probably find a guy who wouldn't treat her like crap), this is not something straight out of science fiction. This is a trope common throughout history. Chances are, you know someone like this. God knows I knew girls -- intelligent, beautiful girls -- who couldn't grasp that they were both going out with the same guy. Oh, they knew he was seeing the other girl (because the guy didn't try to hide it), but they each convinced themselves that "he really loves me." The bad boy thing is almost a biological inheritance from our more primitive ancestors.
So what if that also throws a lot of the Enlightenment out the window? This isn't a show for feminists, that's for damn sure. It's not about a woman's independence. Destiny's Child does not sing the theme song (Natasha Bedingfield does, a fairly conservative pop-star if there is such a thing). There is no political agenda with this show. Which means, of course, that the "reality," while faked, comes across as genuine, in an oddly perverted way.
So next time you watch "The Hills" -- and trust me, you should watch "The Hills;" Whitney's the shit -- remember that you are watching thousands of years of supposed human evolution getting shown the door. But you'll get to see it accompanied by L.C.'s all-purpose raised eyebrow (It's a question! It's approval! It's incredulity! It's everything and nothing and deserves it's own show!).
If you don't have a half-hour to spare for that, than maybe you ought to check how "real" your life is.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Don't Kill the Messenger
When Michael Lewis decided to write Moneyball, his intention was to figure out how a team with seemingly no resources in which to compete with large-market teams could put together playoff runs year after year. He was specifically interested in how the Oakland A's, one of the "poorer" teams in baseball (I always smile a little when teams complain about having a payroll of "only" 40 million dollars) was able to be successful. What he found wasn't a magic formula but, in fact, the seeming opposite.
Baseball, a game built on traditions, didn't understand any of those traditions. Instead, with a series of superstitions and misguided beliefs, a multi-billion dollar industry was run with the efficiency of a ice cream stand on the sun.
With a little less melting.
The baseball theory itself is pretty interesting, but, amazingly enough, not really the point of the book. The point is to show that baseball is not really a game of gut-calls, but instead, a game of numbers. It can be a game of numbers because it produces such large sample sets -- 162 game seasons, multiple at-bats per game, multiple innings-pitched, multiple pitches thrown. What this means is that, over the course of a season, and over the course of a career, there is enough data to generate statistical probabilities that generally stand up. What the A's figured out was that certain statistics more accurately gauge a players offensive capabilities, and that those statistics weren't the ones that find themselves in the daily box scores, key among them, on-base percentage. The team had come to the conclusion that, when it comes down to it, the most important thing a hitter can do is not make an out. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter how you get on first base, just that you do (with the exception of fielders choices, of course).
What Lewis was amazed by (as were the A's, who people saw as this anamoly), was that this was a radical way of thinking. Logic-be-damned: no boy with a computer is going to tell someone who actually played the game that RBIs, steals, and batting average don't matter. The problem was, that the A's weren't saying that. They were saying that those numbers are not as accurate at explaining how good an offensive player is.
In the end, the book is less about the math (although it is important), and more about the philosophy. It wasn't that the A's were trying to prove that the rest of baseball was wrong. it wasn't trying to say that the people everyone else had designated as good were bad. It was simply trying to show how a baseball team, if run as an efficient business, can do so with less money by identifying the "parts" others were undervaluing, selling high the players other teams were overvaluing, and getting the best possible team for his money. The fact was, the A's couldn't afford superstars on their team, so instead they had to figure out a way to win that didn't include players traditionally labeled as being good (regardless if they had actually performed or not -- hence their liking college players over high school players: they had more evidence on which to make a decision).
That's why the book is called Moneyball. Because, although it's a game built on tradition, it's also a business built on cash.
The most amazing thing about this book is the reaction. This book was written a couple of years ago, and yet it seems as if people still think it's hogwash. They don't understand how a guy with a bad body, or someone who doesn't run fast, can be a major league baseball player. They don't understand how the sacrifice bunt is a wasted play (that the probability of a run scoring from first base with no outs is significantly statistically higher than a player on second base with one out) or how, for the most part, stealing is statistically too risky a play to warrant indiscriminate running -- no matter who the player is. Again, this is about tradition. We grew up playing this game, we grew up watching this game, and so many things that we took for granted -- usually because some ex-ballplayer who is now the announcer says it's so -- are being questioned. But the numbers don't bear out those plays. It is conservativism at it's worst, being afraid of technology because they refuse to see anything is broken at all.
Perhaps the worst of these nay-sayers is, amazingly enough, someone who has admitted he's actually never read the book: Joe Morgan. Now Morgan was a phenomenal player (or so I'm told; I never saw him play, but seeing how he's in the Hall of Fame and the numbers are there, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt), but he's a terrible broadcaster. This despite the fact that he's the number one baseball analyst for ESPN. What makes him so terrible is that he has no concept about why things happen in the games. He has a love for "little ball," and yet when he points to a successful "little ball team" (such as the 2005 White Sox), what he inevitably ignores is their tremendous "big ball" numbers and amazing pitching. If you pointed out to him that the same team, with the same philosophy, performed poorly the next season, he has no answer for that. Most importantly, though, is that although he hasn't read it, he still feels he has the right to comment about it. And his comments are wrong.
To observe how wrong he is, read one of the better sports blogs on the internet, Fire Joe Morgan.
The funny thing is, I had bought into the ideas espoused in Moneyball before actually reading it. When they were explained to me, they simply made sense. How could they not: they were backed up with numbers. The numbers were backed up with success. Yes, as Morgan gleefully points out, the A's have not won a World Series with their philosophy, but they have reached the playoffs a number of years with players people consistently belittle -- something must be working. Too, there can only be one champion each year, and it's not always the case that the best team in the regular season wins it all. But somehow winning division titles isn't enough for Joe, and yet he'll praise managers with losing records (because they play the game "the right way"). Reading the book was like having gravity explained to you by Newton -- it felt like I was getting the inside scoop from the man himself.
If you want to understand the numbers behind baseball, read this book. If you want to understand why some teams do better than others, regardless of payroll, read this book. If you want to learn more about Billy Beane, the A's general manager (who did not write the book), Scott Hatteberg, Josh Brown, Nick Swisher, or Chad Bradford, read this book. However, if you want to maintain your belief in baseball as being flawless, do not read this book.
You will not understand it or you will be defensive and resistant to it. Either way, it's not the book for you.
Baseball, a game built on traditions, didn't understand any of those traditions. Instead, with a series of superstitions and misguided beliefs, a multi-billion dollar industry was run with the efficiency of a ice cream stand on the sun.
With a little less melting.
The baseball theory itself is pretty interesting, but, amazingly enough, not really the point of the book. The point is to show that baseball is not really a game of gut-calls, but instead, a game of numbers. It can be a game of numbers because it produces such large sample sets -- 162 game seasons, multiple at-bats per game, multiple innings-pitched, multiple pitches thrown. What this means is that, over the course of a season, and over the course of a career, there is enough data to generate statistical probabilities that generally stand up. What the A's figured out was that certain statistics more accurately gauge a players offensive capabilities, and that those statistics weren't the ones that find themselves in the daily box scores, key among them, on-base percentage. The team had come to the conclusion that, when it comes down to it, the most important thing a hitter can do is not make an out. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter how you get on first base, just that you do (with the exception of fielders choices, of course).
What Lewis was amazed by (as were the A's, who people saw as this anamoly), was that this was a radical way of thinking. Logic-be-damned: no boy with a computer is going to tell someone who actually played the game that RBIs, steals, and batting average don't matter. The problem was, that the A's weren't saying that. They were saying that those numbers are not as accurate at explaining how good an offensive player is.
In the end, the book is less about the math (although it is important), and more about the philosophy. It wasn't that the A's were trying to prove that the rest of baseball was wrong. it wasn't trying to say that the people everyone else had designated as good were bad. It was simply trying to show how a baseball team, if run as an efficient business, can do so with less money by identifying the "parts" others were undervaluing, selling high the players other teams were overvaluing, and getting the best possible team for his money. The fact was, the A's couldn't afford superstars on their team, so instead they had to figure out a way to win that didn't include players traditionally labeled as being good (regardless if they had actually performed or not -- hence their liking college players over high school players: they had more evidence on which to make a decision).
That's why the book is called Moneyball. Because, although it's a game built on tradition, it's also a business built on cash.
The most amazing thing about this book is the reaction. This book was written a couple of years ago, and yet it seems as if people still think it's hogwash. They don't understand how a guy with a bad body, or someone who doesn't run fast, can be a major league baseball player. They don't understand how the sacrifice bunt is a wasted play (that the probability of a run scoring from first base with no outs is significantly statistically higher than a player on second base with one out) or how, for the most part, stealing is statistically too risky a play to warrant indiscriminate running -- no matter who the player is. Again, this is about tradition. We grew up playing this game, we grew up watching this game, and so many things that we took for granted -- usually because some ex-ballplayer who is now the announcer says it's so -- are being questioned. But the numbers don't bear out those plays. It is conservativism at it's worst, being afraid of technology because they refuse to see anything is broken at all.
Perhaps the worst of these nay-sayers is, amazingly enough, someone who has admitted he's actually never read the book: Joe Morgan. Now Morgan was a phenomenal player (or so I'm told; I never saw him play, but seeing how he's in the Hall of Fame and the numbers are there, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt), but he's a terrible broadcaster. This despite the fact that he's the number one baseball analyst for ESPN. What makes him so terrible is that he has no concept about why things happen in the games. He has a love for "little ball," and yet when he points to a successful "little ball team" (such as the 2005 White Sox), what he inevitably ignores is their tremendous "big ball" numbers and amazing pitching. If you pointed out to him that the same team, with the same philosophy, performed poorly the next season, he has no answer for that. Most importantly, though, is that although he hasn't read it, he still feels he has the right to comment about it. And his comments are wrong.
To observe how wrong he is, read one of the better sports blogs on the internet, Fire Joe Morgan.
The funny thing is, I had bought into the ideas espoused in Moneyball before actually reading it. When they were explained to me, they simply made sense. How could they not: they were backed up with numbers. The numbers were backed up with success. Yes, as Morgan gleefully points out, the A's have not won a World Series with their philosophy, but they have reached the playoffs a number of years with players people consistently belittle -- something must be working. Too, there can only be one champion each year, and it's not always the case that the best team in the regular season wins it all. But somehow winning division titles isn't enough for Joe, and yet he'll praise managers with losing records (because they play the game "the right way"). Reading the book was like having gravity explained to you by Newton -- it felt like I was getting the inside scoop from the man himself.
If you want to understand the numbers behind baseball, read this book. If you want to understand why some teams do better than others, regardless of payroll, read this book. If you want to learn more about Billy Beane, the A's general manager (who did not write the book), Scott Hatteberg, Josh Brown, Nick Swisher, or Chad Bradford, read this book. However, if you want to maintain your belief in baseball as being flawless, do not read this book.
You will not understand it or you will be defensive and resistant to it. Either way, it's not the book for you.
Monday, October 1, 2007
I Didn't See This One Coming
It’s always a bit joyful to rent a movie and find that, more than not sucking, you might actually have come across a pretty decent film.
When The Lookout was being promoted for the theatres, I remember thinking to myself: that looks like an okay movie. It seemed like a slightly odd vehicle for Joseph Gordon-Levitt (as I only really know him from “3rd Rock from the Sun” and Ten Things I Hate About You) because it was definitely a move away from the comedy and/or teen roles he had taken previously. That said, I didn’t go see it in the theatres because a) I live in New York, and movies are fucking expensive and b) if I am going to go see a movie, I want to get the bang-for-my-buck, so to speak: I want to see movies that either utilize the big screen and surround-sound (action, sci-fi, martial arts, etc.) or is so culturally important that I feel it’s imperative I see it immediately (like Superbad, for instance). The Lookout didn’t seem like that kind of movie.
Part of the problem, as I see it, concerning the movie’s success was that the title and trailers seemed to imply something about the movie that wasn’t really central. Gordon-Levitt is barely a lookout in any part of the movie (except, maybe, if you consider that he lives with a blind man, played by Jeff Daniels). The trailers also never mention that Gordon-Levitt’s character, Chris, is mentally handicapped throughout most of the movie. This is such a huge factor in the story, and yet the movie was never sold with that being prominently displayed. Instead, it came across as a crime-thriller, perhaps a bit film-noirish, but not exactly über-innovative. Good, but not “fresh.”
But the movie is “fresh.” Gordon-Levitt’s handicap is the result of a decision he made that went wrong, so there is both sympathy and distance from him as a character. He plays it both charmingly and as an asshole, making the character feel complete and adding tension to pretty much every scene. The most important feature, though, is his difficulty with memory and sequencing (placing things in a narrative order), and this plays out – as my one friend mentioned, repeatedly during the movie – in a very Memento-like way. Similar manipulations from other characters, similar needs for memory devices, all come together in similar ways in both movies. And yet, The Lookout, in not being about remembering the past, but instead coping with the present, provides a completely different take.
Besides Gordon-Levitt, there’s a great performance by Matthew Goode, a British actor who plays American Tough to perfection. Like any good villain, he’s both menacing and charismatic as Gary Spargo, and although it’s obvious from the beginning that he’s using Chris for his handicap and his job at the bank, there’s nevertheless a bond that he creates between the two that sucks you in.
Jeff Daniels, playing Chris’ blind friend Lewis, also does a good job, although a little clichéd at times. His mentor/protector/comic relief role is perfect for Daniels, and yet I was not completely certain if the character was perfect for the movie. It provided a grounding point for Chris – the family when his own family seems so distant – but there was something about him that didn’t seem to mesh with the overall story. Perhaps it’s simply their age difference that gives off an odd vibe.
The biggest detriment, though, are two of the bigger characters in the movie: Luvlee, played by Isla Fisher (of Wedding Crashers fame), and Bone, played by Greg Dunham (a newcomer). Dunham plays the character well, as the dark, mysterious killer who has almost no lines but provides the murderous can-do spirit that Gary needs to keep everyone in line. The only problem is: who the hell is he? Nothing ever gets explained about him – such as how Gary knows this guy – and while he adds a bit of creepiness to the movie, he also detracts from some of the realism. He’s almost too ghoulish to be believable.
With Luvlee, there’s much the same problem. Used by Gary to lure Chris into the scheme, her biggest moment is when she is confronted by Lewis. Unfortunately, we never get a resolution to that confrontation. We see Chris in bed, listening, but the closest we get to him approaching Lewis about the conversation is when he tells Lewis he’s moving out. Worst of all, though, the director keeps showing us Luvlee and Gary being somewhat intimate (affectionate?) whenever Chris isn’t around and yet this relationship is never explained. In fact, about two-thirds into the movie, Luvlee leaves, and we never see or hear from her again.
Still, on first viewing, there’s enough to keep your attention. You do get wrapped up in story and in the way the director sets up the scenes. It was only later, as the credits rolled, that I was left wondering about the girl. Bone, although perhaps not as used as a shotgun-above-the-mantle should be, is generally explainable, and so in the end, you get a unique twist on the bank heist movie. It is dark, it is character driven, and quick enough to help you get past any hang-ups you might be formulating. Ironically, despite its short length, there is an awful lot of time spent on development, which is an overall plus.
I’m glad I didn’t see it in the theatre, and I don’t think there’s enough replay value to own it, but I definitely recommend you renting it.
When The Lookout was being promoted for the theatres, I remember thinking to myself: that looks like an okay movie. It seemed like a slightly odd vehicle for Joseph Gordon-Levitt (as I only really know him from “3rd Rock from the Sun” and Ten Things I Hate About You) because it was definitely a move away from the comedy and/or teen roles he had taken previously. That said, I didn’t go see it in the theatres because a) I live in New York, and movies are fucking expensive and b) if I am going to go see a movie, I want to get the bang-for-my-buck, so to speak: I want to see movies that either utilize the big screen and surround-sound (action, sci-fi, martial arts, etc.) or is so culturally important that I feel it’s imperative I see it immediately (like Superbad, for instance). The Lookout didn’t seem like that kind of movie.
Part of the problem, as I see it, concerning the movie’s success was that the title and trailers seemed to imply something about the movie that wasn’t really central. Gordon-Levitt is barely a lookout in any part of the movie (except, maybe, if you consider that he lives with a blind man, played by Jeff Daniels). The trailers also never mention that Gordon-Levitt’s character, Chris, is mentally handicapped throughout most of the movie. This is such a huge factor in the story, and yet the movie was never sold with that being prominently displayed. Instead, it came across as a crime-thriller, perhaps a bit film-noirish, but not exactly über-innovative. Good, but not “fresh.”
But the movie is “fresh.” Gordon-Levitt’s handicap is the result of a decision he made that went wrong, so there is both sympathy and distance from him as a character. He plays it both charmingly and as an asshole, making the character feel complete and adding tension to pretty much every scene. The most important feature, though, is his difficulty with memory and sequencing (placing things in a narrative order), and this plays out – as my one friend mentioned, repeatedly during the movie – in a very Memento-like way. Similar manipulations from other characters, similar needs for memory devices, all come together in similar ways in both movies. And yet, The Lookout, in not being about remembering the past, but instead coping with the present, provides a completely different take.
Besides Gordon-Levitt, there’s a great performance by Matthew Goode, a British actor who plays American Tough to perfection. Like any good villain, he’s both menacing and charismatic as Gary Spargo, and although it’s obvious from the beginning that he’s using Chris for his handicap and his job at the bank, there’s nevertheless a bond that he creates between the two that sucks you in.
Jeff Daniels, playing Chris’ blind friend Lewis, also does a good job, although a little clichéd at times. His mentor/protector/comic relief role is perfect for Daniels, and yet I was not completely certain if the character was perfect for the movie. It provided a grounding point for Chris – the family when his own family seems so distant – but there was something about him that didn’t seem to mesh with the overall story. Perhaps it’s simply their age difference that gives off an odd vibe.
The biggest detriment, though, are two of the bigger characters in the movie: Luvlee, played by Isla Fisher (of Wedding Crashers fame), and Bone, played by Greg Dunham (a newcomer). Dunham plays the character well, as the dark, mysterious killer who has almost no lines but provides the murderous can-do spirit that Gary needs to keep everyone in line. The only problem is: who the hell is he? Nothing ever gets explained about him – such as how Gary knows this guy – and while he adds a bit of creepiness to the movie, he also detracts from some of the realism. He’s almost too ghoulish to be believable.
With Luvlee, there’s much the same problem. Used by Gary to lure Chris into the scheme, her biggest moment is when she is confronted by Lewis. Unfortunately, we never get a resolution to that confrontation. We see Chris in bed, listening, but the closest we get to him approaching Lewis about the conversation is when he tells Lewis he’s moving out. Worst of all, though, the director keeps showing us Luvlee and Gary being somewhat intimate (affectionate?) whenever Chris isn’t around and yet this relationship is never explained. In fact, about two-thirds into the movie, Luvlee leaves, and we never see or hear from her again.
Still, on first viewing, there’s enough to keep your attention. You do get wrapped up in story and in the way the director sets up the scenes. It was only later, as the credits rolled, that I was left wondering about the girl. Bone, although perhaps not as used as a shotgun-above-the-mantle should be, is generally explainable, and so in the end, you get a unique twist on the bank heist movie. It is dark, it is character driven, and quick enough to help you get past any hang-ups you might be formulating. Ironically, despite its short length, there is an awful lot of time spent on development, which is an overall plus.
I’m glad I didn’t see it in the theatre, and I don’t think there’s enough replay value to own it, but I definitely recommend you renting it.
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