Sports movies were powerful once. In the '80s and '90s, there were hits about football, baseball, basketball, hockey, boxing, karate - and they were movies about teams and players and coaches, not scouts and executives.
Things seem to have taken a turn. Moneyball, which received a Best Picture nomination, is about the people who have jobs in sports more than the people who play sports. Draft Day, which will not receive a Best Picture nomination, is too. So is the upcoming Million Dollar Arm. So was Trouble With The Curve. We've still got stories about scouts and executives and agents, and there's the occasional biopic like 42. But where did the movies about sport itself, as it intersects with the lives of regular people who play and love and watch it, go?
It's a question provoked by remembrances of Field Of Dreams, 25 years old this week and as strange of a little piece of work as it ever was. We've had plenty of sports movies for kids with out-of-this-world elements like magical arms and ... well, Space Jam. But there haven't been a lot of adult-targeted dramas incorporating straight-up magical realism, which allows Field Of Dreams to transform the emotional subtext of a lot of these movies directly into text.
Instead of just being about the oft-repeated trope of men and their fathers bonding (or not) through sports, Field Of Dreams brings Ray Kinsella's father back to life, literally, for a long-deferred game of catch. Rather than just being about the connection of sports to childhood even for adults, it shows baseball bodily transforming the aging Moonlight Graham (Burt Lancaster) into a young man. And rather than simply seeing a tragic figure like Shoeless Joe Jackson as a symbol of lost opportunity, it brings him out of a cornfield - out of the very heart of Americana - for a second chance.
It's a deeply and unapologetically sentimental movie, despite the fact that it actually does contain impressive - and little-remembered - moments of restraint. The first scene in which Ray meets Shoeless Joe, in which Ray's curious and polite reaction is awed but very Midwestern, is a stunner, in part because of the faith the filmmakers had in the sound of crickets. Ironically, it loses its punch when the emotion-goosing piano begins tinkling away in the background.
Hollywood, unfairly or not, has always maintained an unofficial division between regular sentimentality and sentimentality designed to be palatable to men. This is probably one of the few places, in fact, where women are the default: a film simply described as a tear-jerker is usually marketed to women. When one is marketed to men, it's what Tim Grierson at Deadspin called the "male weepie" last year when somewhat ambivalently naming Alexander Payne (Nebraska, The Descendants) the form's current champion.
In fact, back in 1989, Richard Corliss at Time called Field Of Dreams "the male weepie at its wussiest." There's no reason in the world men shouldn't cry at movies or women should, but the baggage of that assumption is heavy and ever-present.
Sports movies have long been central to male-marketed melodrama: Pride Of The Yankees, Brian's Song, The Champ, The Natural. But those movies - like westerns and war movies, the other most commonly marketed sentimental dude flicks - involved an awful lot of ... you know, death. Death made strong emotion permissible as a response, even if it was more intended to provoke a quiet tear in the eye than the blubbering in which women have always been frankly encouraged to indulge.
What the sports movies of the '80s and '90s - and in fact, sports movies going back at least as far as Rocky in 1976 - got to be good at was using sports, without the heavy baggage of death, to play, sometimes in a less weighty way and sometimes even in comedy, with three issues that resonated powerfully with audiences, including men and boys: camaraderie, fathers, and aging.
While Bull Durham, for instance, can play as a sexy romance between Crash (Kevin Costner) and Annie (Susan Sarandon), with comic relief from Nuke (Tim Robbins), its poignancy comes from its study of the end of Crash's long career as a not-quite-major-league-caliber catcher. Here's a man who will leave baseball largely unrecognized, both because he spent much of his career making pitchers better and because he's ambivalent about becoming, for instance, the all-time hit leader in the minor leagues.
Crash is positively tragic if you compare his accomplishments to his original goals, but not if you simply ask the question of whether he leads a good life. Costner's other film with writer-director Ron Shelton, the not as good but still underrated golf movie Tin Cup, covers a lot of the same ground.
While films about female athletes are far rarer, there's a similar bittersweet tang to A League Of Their Own, in which Dottie (Geena Davis) walks away from baseball to be with her husband, despite how much she loves it. She has other priorities; there is life outside the game, and it's time to attend to it. That's on top of the story's constant burbling undercurrent that these women are all destined to be mistreated, thrown over when the male players return from the war. Just like Crash, Dottie is evidence that athletes sometimes have to love the games they play enough to forgive them their profound injustices.
You even get some of this from The Replacements, a lightweight comedy that posits Keanu Reeves as a failed quarterback dragged off his boat to work as a replacement player during an NFL strike. Just like we do with Crash and Dottie and Tin Cup McAvoy, we find him suspended at the moment when he's moving from athlete to former athlete, coming to terms with life after competition.
That's not to even mention the heft of some of the better straight-up Big Game Movies like Hoosiers, which follows an underdog Indiana basketball team to a suitable underdog's ending, but not without certain suggestions of pain, both for the coach, played by Gene Hackman, and for an alcoholic team supporter played by Dennis Hopper.
There are almost always fathers in these stories, sometimes literally and sometimes in the simple fact that coaches in sports movies are effectively fathers, and the push-pull of wanting to please and wanting to pull away comes up with coaches that comes up with fathers and with, in films like An Officer And A Gentleman, superiors in the military. In Hollywood, when you want to sell sentimentality to men and encourage them to be unembarrassed by it, you background their romantic relationships and foreground their relationships with whatever men a generation older they are trying to understand and gain understanding from. (In Field Of Dreams, this is not only true with Ray's father, but also with Jackson and the reclusive writer Terence Mann, played by James Earl Jones - who, in the novel Shoeless Joe, was actually an imagined version of J.D. Salinger, exactly the frustrating, unavailable mentor a novelist might come up with.)
In fairness, it's not all or nothing: Jerry Maguire in 1996 had a lot of the same themes of the teetering feeling of early middle age, despite being about an agent. And plenty of sports movies about teams have been soulless and cynical. But on the whole, it seems depressing to have moved from sports films mostly about athletes and coaches to sports films mostly about agents and the front office.
Draft Day falls so emotionally flat because it isn't really about sports; it's about business. It could just as easily be about a man negotiating shipping contracts as about the general manager of the Cleveland Browns negotiating draft picks.
What makes sports films work really is the connection to the sport itself. Costner's general-manager character in Draft Day gives no particular indication that he loves football. He seems to understand it pretty well, but he doesn't seem to love it, and he mostly seems beleaguered to have the job he does in the first place. In Draft Day, football is a product like shoes or computers - or movies - where, if you're going to follow the ins and outs of who wins and who loses, you mostly spend your time watching guys on the phone arguing about money. It's very, very difficult to write a good movie about guys on the phone arguing about money. Not impossible, perhaps, but very, very difficult.
Guys trying to outmaneuver each other on the telephone by hollering about millions of dollars will never match the scene in Bull Durham where the conference on the pitchers' mound incorporates discussions of wedding presents, visiting fathers (there's that theme again), and curses. Baseball is narratively rich; trading players is narratively thin unless you give it a lot of help.
Scouts, agents, managers, owners: that's fine, but it's different. It's a little hollow inside. It's a little sad.
Easter Sunday is a busy time for many Christian churches. And for one Florida church, "busy" only begins to describe it. The Basilica of the National Shrine of Mary, Queen of the Universe has no permanent members, but it will host tens of thousands of worshipers today.
That's because the church is across the street from Walt Disney World. The main basilica was built in the early 1990s, to give visitors to the resort complex a place to worship. As its website clarifies, Mary, Queen of the Universe Shrine is not a parish church.
The shrine is holding eight Easter Masses today; the first began at 7:30 this morning, and the last will begin at 6 tonight. To handle the large crowds, the basilica is using an overflow tent that can hold 1,000 people.
From Orlando, Amy Kiley of member station WMFE reports:
"The Basilica of the National Shrine of Mary, Queen of the Universe hosts about 35,000 Catholics on Easter Sunday - and none are church members.
"Tourists started the ministry at Disney World before funding the basilica. Director of Operations Gina Schwiegerath says the shrine needs a tent for overflow crowds.
"'People from all over the world, all over the nation, gather together in one place, and for that hour, you're not people from all over the world,' Schwiegerath says. 'We're a Catholic community sharing in the Body of Christ, which is amazing.'
"The church and tent have about 3,700 seats. Still, nearly 1,800 people stand during the busiest Easter Masses."
The shrine's complex has grown over the years; the property includes a gift shop, in addition to a museum and gardens.
Each week, Weekend Edition Sunday brings listeners an unexpected side of the news by talking with someone personally affected by the stories making headlines.
As a volunteer for the 2013 Boston Marathon, nurse Amelia Nelson thought should would be there to help runners as they came across the finish line.
"Our whole mission was to make sure that we kinda talked to people as they came across the finish line, ask them how their time was, make sure that they were oriented, make sure they knew what was going on and if they needed an intervention, to take them into the medical tent," Nelson says.
Nelson ended up having to treat far more grievous wounds that day. Three people died and at least 260 were injured in the bombing that occurred near the finish line. On Monday, Amelia Nelson will return to the race course, this time as a runner.
And while the day will be a celebration, she tells NPR's Rachel Martin it will be hard not to conjure up thoughts of that day one year ago when she and her friend Kristy showed up to their duty station.
Just after 2 p.m., Nelson says she remarked how uneventful the day had been, with few runners needing assistance.
"It had been perfect," she says.
And that's when the first bomb went off. She said for a moment the whole world froze, and everyone was looking toward the smoke. It was a moment she says seemed to last forever.
"And all of a sudden that moment is broken by screaming and total chaos," she says.
As an emergency provider, Nelson's training sprang into action and she ran toward the site of the first bomb. After helping people on the scene, she hopped in an ambulance and went to the hospital to help patients there as well.
The recovery from that day has been a gradual process, Nelson says.
"The first time I went back was a couple weeks after ... and it scared me to no end," she says.
The idea to run in the 2014 marathon came from her volunteer team leader, who had run the race before.
"She looked at us and she was like, 'I'm gonna get your girls' numbers and we're gonna run this, and that's how we're gonna make this better," she says.
Nelson says it was hard to mix her training for the Boston Marathon in between her 12-hour shifts as a nurse.
"I'm not one of those people that runs every day; I'm not someone who wakes up wanting to run every day," she says. "But it has certainly been an escape ... [to] be out in the city and appreciate what it is."
The determination to train for and run this year's race, Nelson says, comes from doing it as a community and as a team, as well as doing it for those who can't run.
"I feel like there are a whole lot of people who need this, including myself," she says.
She's anxious the race, but more anxious about the anniversary of the bombing on April 15. She felt a huge sense of relief once she got past that day, and the race is the next step.
"By Monday night, I will be thrilled that it is over," she says. "I feel like I can get back to some sense of normalcy, where I don't need to get up and run every morning."
And, she says, she'll keep running, though probably not distances as long as a marathon.
Keep up with Nelson, one of eight runners NPR followed through their training for the Boston Marathon.
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Rubin "Hurricane" Carter, the former boxing champion whose conviction for a triple murder was overturned after he served nearly 20 years in prison, has died of prostate cancer. Carter, whose story inspired a Bob Dylan song and a Denzel Washington film, was 76.
Carter was a contender for the middleweight boxing crown in the 1960s, but his life and career were derailed when he and another man were convicted of three murders that took place at a bar in Paterson, N.J., in 1966.
Carter maintained his innocence and his advocates kept working for his release after his 1967 murder conviction.
After several reversals, Carter eventually regained his freedom in 1985.
A federal court "found that police and prosecutors had violated Carter's rights to a fair trial," as NPR's Nina Totenberg reported back in 1999, "not to mention the trial judge, who allowed the prosecution to put on a case that the federal courts later found to be tainted by an appeal to racial prejudice."
A native of New Jersey, Carter died in Toronto, where he moved after being freed.
He was active in the movement to free wrongfully convicted prisoners, reports Jon Kalish for our Newscast unit.
"There are far more people who are wrongly convicted than people would like to think about," Carter said of his activism. "And this is my work because people came to help me when I was in dire need of help."
At the end of his life, Carter was comforted by John Artis, who had been convicted along with him back in the 1960s. As the New York Daily News reported last month, Artis moved in with Carter after learning his friend was being devastated by his fight with cancer.
"He didn't ask me (to come here)," Artis told the newspaper. "When I heard he was dying, it was a no-brainer. I didn't give it a second thought. All he knew was I knocked on the door and said, 'All right. I'm here.' That pleased him. It brought a chuckle from him."
Martha Ann Overland
Nearly a decade has passed since the doors of the Saint Frances Cabrini Catholic Church were shut and its holy water dried up.
With the Archdiocese of Boston strapped for cash, it was one of dozens of churches in the area to be closed and sold off. At the time, the archdiocese was in the throes of the clergy sex abuse crisis. It had agreed to pay nearly $85 million to more than 500 people who said they were abused by priests.
The closing of the church took parishioners in Scituate, Mass., about 30 miles south of Boston, by surprise. The locks were changed in the middle of the night, but a side door of the church had not been properly closed.
That's when parishioners decided to take back "their" church. They sneaked in.
Since October, 2004, followers have continuously occupied the building. Turns are taken sleeping in the church as part of their 24-hour, seven-day-a-week vigil. They've kept the candles lit, the heat on and the lawn mowed. With no priests, parishioners hold services themselves.
"For the last 50 years, every priest from the pulpit has told us this is our church," parishioner Jon Rogers tells NPR's Rachel Martin in an interview. "It was our church up until the time they said now we need to liquidate their asset, to basically pay for the horrific crimes of sexual abuse."
Despite the financial crisis, Rogers says the Catholic Church can't just tell them to get out. The church was built on land given by the community and built with their donations.
"Well, guess what?" Rogers asks. "We are not going to give it up. We truly believe it is ours."
The Archdiocese of Boston does not see it that way. It has stood its ground, patiently outwaiting nearly all of the churches that initially refused to close. Nearly 10 years on, worshipers in this seaside town are the last holdouts.
A resolution, however, could be imminent. The parishioners' appeals have worked their way through the Church's legal system. The Vatican's highest court is set to rule this spring.
If the decision does not go their way, this might be the last Easter celebrated in this church.
That would be a huge shame, Rogers says. With its service and the Easter egg hunt, it's the most exciting day of the year. The entire parish gathers, he says, with upwards of 800 people attending.
Even if the Vatican decides against them, it's not entirely clear the protestors would give up their church. "We bought, paid for it, and today maintain it," says Rogers. "So we're keeping it."