Tuesday, October 27, 2009

The 400 Blows


You may or may not like or care about the French New Wave. The name François Truffaut may make you feel uncomfortable, like a reminder of some long-forgotten, yet uncompleted, homework assignment. Or maybe you avoid black and white films, or subtitles, or foreign pictures in general.

But don’t skip THE 400 BLOWS because you’re daunted or put off by any of the above, because THE 400 BLOWS is one of the best movies about childhood I’ve seen. Director Truffaut clearly remembers what it is to be a child: to hang on every gesture, every overheard word of his parents because those gestures and words constitute the weft and weave of his security; to feel the frustration and anger of unjust punishment because of one’s powerlessness to resist it; indeed, to make life-changing decisions not because you’re particularly good or evil but because they seem like a good idea at the time and, hey, you’re a kid – what do you know?

Antoine Doinel, 13, serves as the film’s subject. He’s a lower-class kid. His mother’s a tramp and his stepfather’s a nice enough guy who, at some point, ignored his own best judgment and married a tramp. At the beginning of the film, his martinet of a schoolteacher punishes him unjustly. He resists in the only way he can and gets caught. And away we go.

But the key to this film lies not in its story, interesting as that may be. The key lies in its observation of Antoine’s viewpoint. Watch him watch his parents, his teachers, his friends. Watch him decide whom to follow and whom to betray. Watch him realize (slowly though the realization may come) that the real world is upon him and the time for games is just about over. Watch him prioritize and decide, and watch his developing relationship with honesty.

Watch it all, and remember how it was for you. Imagine how it is for your kids. Don’t let the pedigree or the vintage or the foreignness deter you: THE 400 BLOWS is worth your time.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Sugar


Recently, I read book entitled Odd Man Out, by Matt McCarthy. The author had played college baseball at Yale and was recruited by the Angels. He survived spring training and made it to Single A. When the season began, he pitched to win. By the time the season ended, he was pitching not to lose. The next year, he was in grad school.

SUGAR’s like that, but with a critical difference. Its pitcher is an undereducated Dominican. Grad school is not an option. His family is counting on him. He’s desperate not just to make it, but to not fail. And minor league baseball is like a death march, an endurance contest where one injury or one bad month or pissing off the wrong guy means the eponymous Sugar is just another loser selling third-rate cell phone chargers on the one corner of his dusty little Dominican town. Every time a guy quits, or gets fired, or just disappears, we hear about how he’d “had enough” and was “looking forward to freedom.” But once you’re off that train, it keeps rolling and you can never get back on.

SUGAR captures that desperation and ambition and pressure. It feels like a documentary and its understated approach adds to its drama. Its actors seem unstudied, its places realistic, and its sense of how it feels to have the world riding on one’s shoulders absolutely true. This is a compelling, honest film about baseball and about being young, talented, and desperate. I’m glad I saw it.