The Rake Magazine

And now for part two of my review on This Sporting Life. Because you play sports like I do, I realize your time is short and you do not favor a Freudian analysis of the film's finer points. And really, don't all rush to read this; the first part of my review was so extensively read that the the servers might shut down again.

Here is a short Monkeywrench review:

1) It's about sports. The book, which won the MacMillan Prize for literature in 1961, was written by a former rugby player from Northern England who attended Art School.

The sports treatment in this film is far superior to the work of say, Peter Berg (a Macalester classmate of mine and yes I am jealous) in Friday Night Lights or even the older, more classic North Dallas Forty.

I am talking smashed bodies, broken bones and fields mired in blood and mud; the life people lived before television and astroturf.

2) It's about women. The most riveting part of the flim is Richard Harris' inability to make Rachel Roberts feel something for him. Had he not thrown a few lefts, he might have been Mr. Right.

I am not trying to be witty here. This is a tough movie. The woman wounds the man with her words and the man slaps her. It's all sinister.

3) It has not one, but two classic Bentleys, and, I believe a convertible Alvis. The contrast of lily white cars against soot gray skies must symoblize something. It could be that the cars are actually better than people. I know this has been my experience. At least with my first Alfa named Gina.

4) It proves apes like you and I can have feelings. OK, I won't pull you into this. As for myself however, my woman thinks me an oaf who cares more about sports than houses. I tried to explain that I also love women's sports. Not working. It hurts.

5) I forget the fifth reason for the moment. Like I said, I love sports. In fact, yesterday I hit my head so hard on the ground that I am starting to loo

I am a gearhead, or as they say across the pond, a "petrolhead." While this ostensibly disqualifies me from writing a movie review, my British friends think otherwise. Particularly if I am writing about British films.

The flim you need to watch is called This Sporting Life from 1964. It is a classic of the British New Wave (predated the French) and perhaps the most famous of the "kitchen sink dramas" set in the economically-depressed regions of Nothern England.

It is directed by the great Lindsay Anderson (his first feature film) who went on to direct the scandalous ...If with Malcom McDowell at the end of the decade. It also features the performance of a lifetime by Richard Harris (his first feature flim lead) and Rachel Roberts (nominated for an Oscar, as was, I think, Harris.)

For a critical appraisal of this classic, simply read the review on the Criterion Flims website (get all your flims--buy and own them-- from this website and waste no time with anything else) or check out Strictly Film School.

For a monkeywrench review, here are my thoughts:

This is a brutal flim. Many consider it the finest British flim ever made (questionable, but worth considering). It is unflinching and unstinting in its attention to emotional and aesthetic detail.

What really makes it work for me, however, is Richard Harris' perfomrnace and that of Ms.Roberts. While it was said at the time that Harris was aping Brando in This Sporting Life, I feel he provides a far more emotionally nuanced performance of an athlete with feelings than "I coulda' been a contenda" Marlon and his assorted women.

I wonder if there is even such a thing as a British method actor?

Leave it to the Americans to coin a buzz phrase. Leave it to the British to mint the finest actors on the planet. (Think Tom Hollywood Hanks in Forrest's Hump versus Peter Sellers in Being There.)

Alas, why should you watch this film about sports?

1) Because it is about sports.

2) Because it is about women.

3) Because it has not one, but two classic Bentleys.

4) Because it shows that apes like you and I can have feelings.

5) Because it says something about living life over keeping your head in the sand (whether in the suburbs or the skyscraper you inhabit downtown).

Part Two, including a very greasy plot synopsis, to follow soon. I am too drained from watching. I have feelings.

(Impatient? There's always Wikipedia.)

A few things.

1) I am not a woman. And never will be.

2) Anne Bancroft will remain the hottest baby boomer that ever wore a black bra. (And don't be fooled by her last name, she was Italian.) 

3) I am having an affair. 

She is younger than me. She has a beautiful Italian name (think sunsets at Portofino, without krauts). She has the build of an athlete and the soul of a poet. Best of all, she looks stunning with a black mop. She is so stunningly hot that my body screams like a banshee trapped in the fires of hell.

Thus my life has become comedy worthy of Dante'. I have told no one of my passion (not even her). I have secretly scouted places to keep her out of sight from my unapproving family--including a somewhat exotic 70's style love nest in the woods.

I even have access to a valet at a very fine hotel close to where I work capable of providing the utmost, Buck Henry-style discretion.

I have become, in effect, Mrs. Robinson.

Except that I don't look good in lingere.

And I have stolen my infernally all-black Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce' all by myself.