| A Tragically Misguided Labor of Love It was a humid late July afternoon; the sun reflected the moisture in the air. I
sweated in the parking lot of my local multiplex, but was then refreshed by chilly bursts
of air while purchasing my ticket for Planet of the Apes. It was still not enough;
I waited, toes tapping and eyes wandering, in line for my medium Diet Pepsi.
Then it happened. As Romeo spied his Juliet from across the ballroom, I
cast eyes upon the promo cutout for Hardball. I'm sure they had a Betty Davis
sparkle as a trance drew me toward Keanu and the Kekambas. I didn't care--one look into
the blank stare of Keanu and I wanted to unlock all of Hardball's secrets. Who are
these street-wise ghetto kids and what are their one-note comedic details? Just what the
hell is Keanu looking at? Isn't Brian Robbins that guy from "Head of the Class?"
Who thought it would be a good idea to give Keanu the Mighty Ducks role? Did anyone
bid on Emilio Estevez's conversion van?
Then came the kiss that sealed the deal: "The most important thing
in life is showing up." The mystery of that line intrigued me--just what the hell
does that mean? Not yet consumated, I then found that the MPAA had deemed Hardball
an "R" film. That was all I needed. Banish me from the movie kingdom forever, if
you must, but I had to see Hardball. I had to know Hardball. "Directed
by Brian Robbins." It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Hardball is so bad that it's dazzling--exalted
to a plane few movies achieve. To be fair, the first five
minutes of Hardball aren't too bad. Sweaty, unshaven,
and ruffled, Keanu agonizes over the point spread of a Bull's
game. He loses the bet, and after downing another Olde Style
(in one of the oddest product placements in recent cinema),
is confronted by some goons. He declares that no one "kicks
his ass as well as I do" and then punches through a car
window and puts his head through a window. Next we see
Keanu in a majestic cathedral, praying for the Bulls to cover
the next spread.
But from here, Hardball is just baffling.
Keanu scrambles for cash, and in the process lands a gig from
a slick-haired capitalist who pays Keanu $500 a week to coach
a tax-break inner-city little league baseball team. Keanu
reluctantly accepts, and the redemption is on. Diane Lane
accidentally hits him with a door; Keanu spills the contents
of his briefcase; but the force is strong in Miss Wilkes,
for she senses the good in him.
Anyway, it takes a while to meet the Kekambas,
and let me tell you, this is a ragtag bunch of lovable shorties
with their one, sometimes two, note comedic details and lots
of sassy backtalk. We spend enough time with the Kekambas
that I actually started to like the little dudes. There's
Ray-Ray, who has mad skills and tends to extrapolate stories.
Kofi is the primadonna who quits after the Kekambas' first
loss. We've got Andre, the street-wisest and team clown
who stands up to Kofi, but according to hardballmovie.com,
is just a kid who wants to play ball. One of my favorites
is Jefferson, the fat kid with asthma and a heart of gold.
But my two favorite Kekambas are Miles and G-baby. Miles
has a rocket arm and draws inspiration from one Notorious
B.I.G. Miles wears his Walkman to the mound, and I kept
wondering where he gets the money for all those batteries.
No matter, Miles waves his hands in the air before unleashing
his fastball, and by the time the Kekambas make it to the
'ship, the whole crowd is raisin' the roof to the tune of,
I believe, "Big Poppa." Now I thought that,
considering this is a story of making it in the 'hood, the
lyrics would contain some statement about racial injustice,
perhaps like Grand Master Flash's "Don't push me because
I'm close to the edge," but it's some song about scorin'
bitches and ho's--but if it helps Miles pitch, then it's ok
by me. And Diane Lane.
But in my opinion, the Kekambas' MVP is G-baby.
He's a short and sassy rappin' fool who hangs with the team
to be around his brother. He's Conor's right hand man--a
considerable job, seeing as how we never see Conor actually
teaching baseball--and even though he doesn't play, he does
the most important thing in life: he shows up. That's
what this is all about, of course, and when the movie takes
its horrifyingly bizarre final turn, the Kekambas show up
for G-baby. This is the Oscar touch, I'm convinced,
and you won't believe it unless you see it. Brian Robbins
really does try to bring a gritty feel to his scenes in the
'jects, but it looks like a rap video more than a ghetto.
And how about that soaring cameo by Sammy Sosa? My heart
exploded like the lights at the end of The Natural
when Sammy knocked one out of the park for the boys. I could
go on and on, but let's just move on to Keanu.
Poor Keanu. He's so inept that I found myself
cheering for him--the same way I cheer for kids in wheelchairs
to cross the finish line when I volunteer for the Special
Olympics. He has the same sunken look all the time, but here
it serves him well, I suppose, because Conor O'Neill is a
confused guy. Keanu makes these sweeping gestures with his
arms, seemingly swatting at gnats. To express high drama,
he opens his palms as he flails, looking like a high school
Hamlet imitating Kenneth Branaugh. He also chokes on his lines,
and they come out garbaled, like a pelican devouring a halibut.
Keanu paces and rubs his forehead so much there should have
been a burn mark on his temple, but bless his heart--every
damn line he spits out is heartfelt. Keanu means it.
He has nowhere near the faculty to express any specific emotions,
but goshdarnit, Keanu wants so badly to create conflict and
tension and drama that he just trips over himself like an
awkward teenager at his first high school dance. You can tell
that he's concentrating on trying to bring power to the role
because his eyes scrunch up like foreign tourist reading a
flight schedule. He wants to emote but just can't. I'm sure
Keanu thinks this is his Oscar role--this is his Larry Flynt
and he's Woody Harrelson. We can sit here and critique his
performance and call him terrible, but I sensed a conviction
in his acting that wasn't acting. Keanu Reeves desperately
wanted to make a movie and play a role that matters,
and I respect that. This is his "small, heartfelt"
movie between Matrixes. He sucks, but he's convicted.
In fact, everything about this movie operates
on the same principle. Plus, Brian Robbins is insane. Really,
considering his work in Good Burger, Varsity Blues,
and Ready to Rumble, I think the man is insane, clinically
and otherwise. Brian Robbins is convinced, with the certainty
of an abortion protester, that Hardball is Best Picture
material. It's gritty because it takes place in the hood,
it has a poignant message, and I'm sure that in the mind of
Brian Robbins, Keanu Reeves has the kind of star-power to
elevate this movie in the eyes of the academy. Everyone involved
emits a disconcerting earnesty, as if they're totally clueless
to how bad it really is. It's got possibly the worst actor
of his kind, the worst director, the worst tagline, and the
worst marketing conception I've ever seen, but all that be
damned, Hardball emits passion in a time when so many
Hollywood movies settle for being mediocre. Hardball is
worse than mediocre, but it thinks it's a Best Picture, so
I respect it in the same way I respect love letters from love-struck
teenage girls who spend their school days writing bad poetry
about how much they love their boyfriends. Hardball itself
is a love letter to the talentless but passionate, convinced
in their hearts that they've achieved brilliance. This is
the movie--the unadulterated statement, minus a few f-bombs--that
Brian Robbins and Keanu Reeves wanted to make about race and
poverty and God, as screwed up as that is. The least you could
do is show up.
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