Robby Benson, a tutor, a basketball, and a red-hot poker

Any child of the '80s who dreamed of becoming an NBA star, or even only fantasized about hitting a game-winning jumper in the state tournament while under the guidance of a crusty old coach who just got off a boat, surely watched Hoosiers dozens of times. It remains the standard-bearer of all sports movies, and is certainly the best hoops movie ever made.

But another basketball film, released a decade earlier, probably maintains a spot in the heart of those same future hoop stars, especially if those players were a bit more mature — and a lot hornier.

One on One starred a young, floppy-haired Robby Benson, who also co-wrote the film (his dad, Jerry Segal, was the other writer). Last night, after midnight, just as I was headed to bed, I stumbled upon the movie on NBA TV. Despite having to wake up at 6:30 in the morning, I stayed up until 2, watching Robby overcome tough odds, an abusive coach, disdain from arrogant hippies, bullying teammates and his infatuation with a red-headed tutor.

The movie came out in 1977. When I was younger, One on One always seemed to pop up on TBS about once a year, usually on a Saturday afternoon, probably before a 4:05 Braves game. Back then, I felt frustrated at the lack of basketball scenes in what I thought was a basketball movie.

Instead, Robby's character, Henry Steele, spends his time on the bench, riding the pine while pining for his tutor, played by a fetching Annette O'Toole. Watch the trailer again. How would anyone even know the movie focused on a basketball player? It looks more like young Mr. Steele stumbles upon a swingers compound. If the movie is a porno, he certainly seems to have an appropriate name for such a role. "The story of a winner." A winner in what?

Benson attends the generically named "Western University" and struggles to adjust to the large campus. He doesn't help matters by speaking in a voice that's one level above a whisper. What kind of guidance did the director give Robby before his scenes? "We need you to speak like a frightened 11-year-old girl. All the great guards, from Maravich to Robertson, do this. Not only is it great with the ladies, but it's a fine way of inspiring your teammates as their floor general."

Yet he becomes something of a ladies' man. At one point an intoxicated older woman gives him head while Robby drives a car and, to paraphrase Lou Reed, he never loses his head, creatively bribing a police officer who had pulled him over for speeding by offering up a pair of tickets to the big Notre Dame game. It's the last time anyone was excited about Notre Dame basketball.

It's Robby's on-court life that proves to be a nightmare for much of the movie. He fights for playing time. The intensity bothers him. During one practice, his friend gives him speed. As a "Say No To Drugs" performance, it ranks up there with the famous Dragnet episode about the dangers of acid. Robby acts like a cokehead as his embarrassed teammate, who provided the drugs, realizes perhaps he should have first introduced the small-town rube to pot. Once he gets back on the court, Robby continues his out-of-control ways, just the type of performance you'd want from a point guard. It does give him a bit more quickness, but at what cost?

Veteran character actor G.D. Spradlin has the best role in the movie. Spradlin portrays the old-school coach, Moreland Smith. Throughout his long career, Spradlin — who worked as an attorney for an oil company before getting into acting - specialized in playing ruthless, uncaring, occasionally evil men. He was the sleazy senator in The Godfather Part II, the leader of an assassination attempt against the California governor in Nick of Time and a corrupt sheriff in the classic Tank.

In One on One he mentally abuses Robby. He allows the other players to do it physically.

To his credit, Robby refuses to back down. He's Henry Steele, damn it, and that means he's strong. Sure, he looks like a 98-pound weakling out on the court with the men - and probably weighed 108 pounds in real life - but he will not allow coach Smith to break him, even as he's occasionally breaking down.

Another classic scene. Weirdly, this is the same speech my junior college coach, Mike Augustine, gave to me. Making it even stranger? We didn't even have scholarships.


In the end, of course, Robby/Steele wins the girl and the big game.

About that game: Overall, the hoops scenes in One on One are to basketball what the kiss between Norman Dale and Myra Fleener was to romance. In the final game, the one where Steele comes in off the bench in the final 3 minutes to rally Western to a rousing victory, the opposing team hits approximately 23 consecutive layups in the final moments. It's shocking to see an intense coach like Smith lead a team that plays defense like the 1991 Denver Nuggets. Steele scores, opposition gets a layup. Steele nails a jumper, opposition gets a layup. Steele dishes, opposition gets a layup. Yet somehow Western narrows the deficit, although they still trail by 5 with less than a minute to play. After Steele slices it to 1, Western again steals it and gets the ball on the sideline with four seconds left. Steele hits the winning layup after an improbable series of events leaves him wide open under the hoop, a sequence that could have only been accomplished in four seconds if the timekeeper from the 1972 Olympic gold medal game manned the scoreboard clock.

The basketball scenes are at least played on a real college court, in a real arena at Colorado State University, unlike so many TV shows and movies, when the action is compressed onto a 30-foot court that makes the athletes look like oafs.

Young Henry feels pretty cocky after those three minutes of stardom. Three minutes. To that point he'd shown next-to-nothing, other than an inability to hold his uppers. His jumper still looks shaky, he needs a year in the weight room or a week with BALCO, and he falls for any girl who looks him in the eye and says hello. But like he was back in his Colorado hometown, he's now the man. And he tells coach Smith what he can do with that scholarship, in probably the best part of the movie.

The first reviews are fun to look back on. Take the one in The New York Times, which says the ending includes a "smashing basketball game." Well, that is one opinion, especially if a British reporter wrote it.

It's impossible - at least for me - to watch One on One, or any basketball movie, and not think about Hoosiers, even if one movie was more about getting laid than layups.

Compare Henry to Hickory star Jimmy Chitwood. On the court, there's not much comparison. While Henry plays for a Division I school and we only see Jimmy at little ol' Hickory, Jimmy is the superior player. There's a decent chance he eventually landed at Indiana, or perhaps Purdue. Better jump shot, better basketball build, smarter player, moves without the ball much better, underrated ball-handler. Off the court, though, Jimmy probably would have dreamed of having Henry's life. Beer! Car! Speed! Chicks!

Both guys labored under a tutor. But while Jimmy studied the War of 1812 under the angry, bitter eyes of Myra Fleener, Henry learns about the origins of World War I from Janet Hays, who wants to explore the finer parts of anatomy while also discussing history. I remain convinced that Jimmy never kissed a girl, much less got lucky with one. Who knows, maybe he flamed out once he landed at Indiana - or Purdue - when he, like Steele, discovered women. Steele proved he could balance women and ball. Jimmy still hasn't.

One on One attempts to show some of the corruption of big-time college athletics, but someone watching this movie 30 years after its release has been desensitized by sports scandals, whether it's money in the mail, point-shaving, payouts, abusive coaches or...tutors who do everyone's homework - but don't hook up with the players. One on One has a message and a good one, but a message never trumps an underdog story, especially one that's still referenced every March anytime a plucky club upsets a superior foe.

One on One is no Hoosiers. In some ways it's hardly a sports movie. But it's a good film for anyone who loved hoops, girls or hoops and girls at the same time.

If you don't agree with that? You can take this blog, find a red-hot poker and, well, you know.

Fletch might finally live

I visit this page a lot. It's the IMDB quotes page for one of my favorite movies, a cinematic classic, a legendary effort by one of the top stars of the '80s.

Fletch. I also own the DVD, so if I get sick of reading the quotes and need to actually hear them, I pop it in and watch Chevy Chase in action

It's all ball bearings nowadays; 6-5 with an afro 6-9; Babar, two b's or one?, etc., etc.

And now, after 26 years, Fletch could be returning to theaters. Warner Bros. has made a deal to start the franchise again. But deals such as this have been in the news many times the last three decades. Scripts are written, stars mentioned, and then the movie dies, in the same way the franchise expired after the unfortunate sequel, Fletch Lives. According to an Entertainment Weekly story, there's even a curse of Fletch.

Like many fans of the original, I'm a bit leery of a remake. No one can replace Chase in the iconic role. He is Fletch, the same way he is Clark W. Griswold. The movies were based on the novels by Gregory McDonald, a former newspaper reporter in Boston who quit his job to write his books about an investigative journalist who inevitably stumbles into a mystery. McDonald, who died in 2008, wrote 11 books in the series, providing Hollywood with plenty of material. The books are worth a read on their own.

But like so many, when I think of Fletch, it's impossible not to picture Chase. Fletch was a childhood hero. The movie helped convince me that I should follow my dreams of being a newspaper reporter and a member of the Lakers. One of them eventually came true, though I wish it had been the other.

Fletch made the life of a newspaper reporter look exotic, thrilling. Forget Woodward and Bernstein in All the President's Men. Yes, they helped take down a president, but did they have a basketball hoop in their apartment? Fletch went undercover, lived on the beach, had tickets to Lakers games and charged steak sandwiches to the Underhills' account.

In fact, Fletch is one of the greatest movie reporters in film history. Some other memorable scribblers:

* Sam Waterston as Sydney Schanberg in The Killing Fields. An extraordinarily powerful movie about a pair of real people. Schanberg worked for The New York Times when Cambodia fell to the Khmer Rouge. Schanberg won a Pulitzer for his work. Haing S Ngor portrayed Dith Pran. Ngor, who, like Pran, survived the Khmer Rouge's horrific regime, won an Oscar for the movie, but was murdered in 1996 during a robbery attempt. Pran died in 2008. Although the movie features the work of a newspaper reporter, it's really about the spirit of Pran, Ngor and the Cambodian people who lived through the horrors of the 1970s.



* Clark Kent. It's part of the disguise, but Kent comes off as a reporter who wouldn't be qualified to be the lead reporter at a weekly shopper, much less at a major metro paper. He's passive, shy and has never really shown any ability to turn a good phrase. Did he work at smaller papers before moving up? And if so, what kind of criminal masterminds did he stop in towns that supported newspapers whose circulation was likely below 50,000 and possibly even below 10,000? Or was he a journalistic superstar who went right from college to the Daily Planet? Hard to picture the mild-mannered Kent being such a superstar. And did he ever win any journalism awards, or did Lois Lane hog them all?

* Sally Field played dogged reporter Megan Carter in Absence of Malice, co-starring Paul Newman, who gets wronged by the local newspaper. Reporters and papers don't come off well in this movie. But the opening scene is like newspaper porn for old-school, ink-stained wretches.



* The Paper focuses on Michael Keaton's character, a daily tabloid editor in New York. But reporters do play a big role, especially Randy Quaid's seen-it-all, drunk, disheveled columnist Michael McDougal. Over Christmas, this was on sale - as a VHS - for a buck at the Janesville convenience store. Well worth it. Would have paid 10 bucks. A few scenes are a bit over the top and Quaid's character is occasionally too much of a caricature. Still, good flick for newspaper folk. The saddest thing about the scene below is that, in real life, Quaid has become a paranoid man who's convinced everyone is out to get him.



* Russell Crowe as Cal McAffrey in State of Play. When the movie came out in 2009, many newspaper people adored it, particularly Crowe's portrayal of a street-smart reporter. People who don't like newspapers - the ones who love to describe papers as dying or break out the "dinosaur" cliche, usually in the comments section of the newspaper's website - laughed at the old newspaper fools clinging to the idea that papers can occasionally make a difference. I really liked it. And I loved Crowe's character.

Still, Fletch's apartment hoop makes him cooler.

The evil sports teams that ruled '80s teen movies

This past weekend I rented Better Off Dead, one of my Top 10 favorite movies and a classic teen film from the 1980s.

"I want my two dollars!"
"Two brothers. One speaks no English, the other learned English from watching The Wide World of Sports. So you tell me, which is better: speaking no English at all, or speaking Howard Cosell?"

"I know it's bacon. What have you done to it?"
"You said you didn't like all the grease from fried bacon, so I boiled it."

And on and on and on. The movie didn't find much success at the box office when it came out in 1985, but it developed a cult following shortly after. I can remember watching it on cable in the late '80s and then spending an entire summer quoting the lines with my friend Brandon. The movie is beloved by pretty much everyone, except, it seems, the star, John Cusack. According to director Steve Holland, Cusack hated the movie when it came out and accused Holland of ruining his career. Far from it.

But there is one scene that bothers me. It's set in the school cafeteria, as Lane deals with a heartbreaking breakup from his girlfriend, Beth, who dumped him for the evil ski captain, the perfectly named Roy Stalin. To get over Beth, Lane attempts to pick up another hot girl from school. He fails miserably and in the process, gets beaten up by the basketball team. What bothers me? The basketball players are wearing their uniforms in the cafeteria, during school hours!

Here's the clip with the basketball team. The cagers make their cafeteria appearance about halfway through the clip. They actually carry basketballs with them to lunch, which I don't think even Pistol Pete did when he was a kid. The ogres don't speak, instead choosing to communicate through a series of grunts and groans that are apparently understood by all. If the guys can't talk to each other at the lunch table, how are they going to call out screens on the court? I bet they were weak on the defensive end.

The object of Lane's affections, Chris, dates "the whole basketball team." Not just one guy, but the whole team. And who knows if dates should also be in air quotes when referring to her relationship with the starting five.

I played high school basketball. Not once did I run around school in our blue or gray uniform and I certainly didn't sit down for a lunch while wearing high tops and shorts.

There are also several people skating around the cafeteria, including Chris the cheerleader. Anyone ever roller-skate through a school cafeteria while carrying a tray filled with pizza burgers and butter sandwiches. Has anyone ever seen this? I certainly didn't. Then again, I did go home for lunch each day starting in the sixth grade, so there's a chance I missed the skating-and-basketball-jersey-wearing underworld at Janesville-Waldorf-Pemberton.

Like the no-name team in Better Off Dead, we wore the short shorts, although most of us had the smarts to sport bicycle pants underneath the uniform. The school didn't keep the short shorts much longer. The standard longer bottoms came to JWP in 1996 and the team made the first state tournament appearance in school history that season. Coincidence?

Better off Dead wasn't the only teen classic from the '80s that portrayed high school athletes as evil warriors hell-bent on destroying any nerd in sight. In Can't Buy Me Love, it's the baseball team. And, once again, we see the team at its most evil during lunch. Not only are they dressed and ready for a game of pepper, but someone on the team actually brought a bat with them, which Ronald uses in a fit of range when he defends his buddy against the star pitcher. So the school district was not only okay with the baseball team ruining the jerseys by wearing them for eight hours, but also had no issue with students carrying wooden weapons around class all day.



Again, I played baseball. Not once did I run around the school in spikes and stirrups. What possible reason would the baseball team - or basketball team in Better off Dead - have for wearing their unis during school hours? Did the school not have adequate locker rooms? Were the players shy and dressed at home? What did the student-athletes do during phy ed class, change into phy ed clothes and then back into the baseball or basketball uniform? Did the baseball coach also wear his uni during the day? Did he teach math while adjusting himself and giving signs? Did the baseball guys wear cups? And why the baseball and basketball teams? Sure, there are some jerks who play those sports and some bullies, but are there that many tough guys who intimidate other students? To fulfill the stereotype, shouldn't it have been the football team or wrestling team running roughshod through the cafeterias? They could have sacked a geek or slammed a dweeb, all while wearing shoulder pads or singlets.

Which uniform is more impractical? Which ones look more ridiculous? I think it's the basketball outfit for both. Walking around with the basketball shorts, there's a chance that someone could come along and depants a player, although if the team rules the school with an iron fist - like it does in Better off Dead - certainly no one would dare take that chance. Even today, when players would actually be wearing shorts that completely cover their genitals, they'd have to be self-conscious while wandering around the halls in their basketball uniform.

At most schools, players or their girlfriends will often wear their football jerseys around school, usually on gameday. But they don't have football pants on and, unless it's for some type of dangerous medical condition, no one's sitting in science class while wearing a helmet and facemask.

No one is scared of basketball players. And they're even less intimidated by baseball players. Then again, the main bad guy in Better off Dead is a skiing star so, compared to him, maybe the basketball players are tough guys.

In fact, guys dressed up in baseball uniforms are always weaklings, even when they're gang members. In The Warriors, the main gang gets chased by a group of thugs called the Baseball Furies. Awesome name (wonder if they have a T-shirt?). Better uniforms.



But what happens? The Furies get their asses kicked, disgracing the family name. The lesson? Baseball teams - whether wearing face paint and running through New York City or when when crammed into ill-fitting uniforms while seated at lunch tables - don't exactly instill fear when cast as the villain. But at least they're not wearing short-shorts.

Worst baseball battery in history

Richard Pryor and John Candy: comedic geniuses.

Richard Pryor and John Candy: not baseball players.

I just finished watching Brewster's Millions, the 1985 movie starring Pryor and Candy as buddies and baseball players. Pryor plays Montgomery Brewster, an over-the-hill pitcher for the Hackensack Bulls who inherits $30 million but has to spend it all in 30 days to inherit the full inheritance of $300 million. His best friend and battery mate - Candy - doesn't understand why Brewster keeps throwing his money away, not realizing that's part of the deal: Brewster can't tell anyone about his situation, or he loses it all. In the end, he succeeds and inherits the full $300 million.

But back to the baseball.

When the movie came out, Candy was 35 and Pryor 44. Candy's age fits the role of a decent semipro ballplayer who's holding on for a few more years in the backwoods of baseball, but his physique certainly doesn't. If David Wells and Greg Luzinski defied science and physics and produced a child together, the unfortunate result might look like John Candy in this uniform. We never see Candy swing a bat, and I have to believe he kept a roster spot because of his leadership with the Bulls' pitching staff. He taunts opposing hitters, throwing them out of their comfort zone, though it appears unlikely he's capable of throwing out any runners.

Then there's Pryor. In the few glimpses we get of Pryor in action, it appears his fastball tops out at about 76 miles per hour. If he was throwing at a dunk tank, he might not have enough velocity to activate the drop switch. Still, he apparently made it as far as Toledo in Triple-A ball and I can only assume that happened in his early 20s. He earns points for creativity: he strikes out a hitter with an always-entertaining Eephus pitch.

Jerry Orbach, or at least his character, manages the Bulls. He does a serviceable job, ably pulling off the cranky, vulgar, seen-it-all manager. At one point he tells one of his hitters he's not a farmer, "You don't have to swing at shit in the dirt." I bet Earl Weaver said that once. The problem, of course, is that Jerry Orbach is Lenny Briscoe, the beloved Law & Order detective. Brewster's Millions came out nearly a decade before Orbach joined the L&O cast, but he's now been retroactively typecast. It's jarring seeing him in other movies or shows, even if those appeared long before Lenny started patrolling New York's streets. While his manager has some good lines, you expect him to quip about a dead body, or threaten someone in an interrogation room, or worry about his drug-addicted daughter. Brewster doesn't help matters later in the film, when he purchases fancy new uniforms for the Bulls. They're blue and tight and when Orbach appears in his, it looks like he's worn a wetsuit to a ballgame.

Orbach's in-game skills as a manager also appear shaky. When the Bulls play a three-inning exhibition against the Yankees - hey, it could happen - Brewster surrenders four runs before Orbach yanks him from the game, telling him he's "gotta" take him out. A bit late, coach. The Yanks had been hitting him hard before he gave up the runs that effectively finished off the Bulls. You have to have the bullpen ready much earlier, though, to be fair, back in those days managers allowed starters to throw more innings, even if in this case a complete game would only be three innings.

The movie's not a comedy classic but it has its entertaining points. At one point Brewster bets on a field hockey game between Loyola and Notre Dame and wins big - much to his chagrin - when Loyola pulls off the stunning upset in a game that was actually previewed in a New York City newspaper. Odd story selection from the editors. He invests in a company featuring an iceberg and other bizarre businesses. The only thing missing is a contribution to the anti-cat-juggling fund that Steve Martin gave to in The Jerk.

Brewster spends and spends and in wasting $30 million in 30 days, he certainly does his best impression of way too many professional athletes. Later in the movie he runs for mayor and in an "unheard of move," spends his own money on his campaign. Unheard of at the time, perhaps. But maybe Bloomberg got an idea from the movie.

Brewster's Millions also forecast some of the populist rage - faux or otherwise - that influenced the recent election. He runs while proclaiming None of the Above, saying that the other candidates are so terrible, people should vote for None of the Above. Surely many people this year wished they had the choice.

I remember watching Brewster's Millions as a kid and being upset at the end that people didn't realize he pulled it off. Everyone thinks he's something of a loser, except for his lovely accountant. I wanted an epilogue as he walked back into the New York night. Did he sponsor another exhibition game, this time against the '86 Mets? Did he run for mayor again, this time on a campaign of All of the The Above? Did he buy the Hackensack Bulls and fire Orbach, or at least purchase better uniforms? And did he finally quit playing ball or did he stay on, firing that weak fastball and nonexistent curve to his overweight friend and catcher?

Saturday potpourri: The Godfather, SNL, and KEYC

Louise is unable to sit still and do just one thing at a time. If we watch a DVD, she can not simply watch the movie. She folds clothes, or files papers, or edits manuscripts or talks about how she wishes she could be doing something extra. This occasionally perturbs me, especially if there's a great scene she's just missed because she's distracted by a 12-step plan to reorganize her closet.

"I saw it, honey," she'll say. Yes, but did she appreciate it? Did she laugh at an appropriate volume or was she distracted by her address book? She explains it by saying she can't just watch a movie or do just one thing at a time when she knows she could be using the time to do five, six or seven other things. It's a miracle I ever get her to a movie theater, because I'm sure she feels like a prisoner, locked in darkness, surrounded by germs, forced to focus on the big screen for two hours. I normally don't understand this psychosis.

But today I do. I'm currently watching the tape of last night's Lakers game while also working on a story that's due in two weeks for the St. John's alumni magazine. On the computer I've called up the video feed of the St John's-St. Olaf football game, but I've turned down the audio on that so I can listen to the radio broadcast from the Johnnies announcers. I'm also typing away on the blog and occasionally turning off the Lakers game to watch The Godfather II, which is in our DVD player. Louise refers to this as putting a whole day's activity into one hour.

Some Saturday thoughts:
* This is probably, I don't know, the 50th time I've seen Godfather II. One scene always confused me. After the attempt on his life early in the movie, Michael travels to New York to talk with Frank Pentangeli and plot his revenge against Hyman Roth. During a meeting with the Rosato brothers, a would-be and mouthy assassin attacks Pentangeli and attempts to kill him after saying, "Michael Corleone says hello." Frankie escapes and later, thinking Michael betrayed him, agrees to testify against the godfather. Yet Michael didn't have anything to do with the assassination attempt. It was Roth. So why would an assassin give credit to Corleone as he kills Pentangeli? Wouldn't he want his victim to know who really gave the order? Why say "Michael Corleone says hello" when Michael really said no such thing? It worked out for Roth because Pentangeli later does turn against Michael but the assassin couldn't have known things would break that way. This guy dissects this and other issues with one of the best movies ever made.

* Newspapers are dying. That's the accepted wisdom and to protest means you're stuck in the past and unwilling to acknowledge the present or face the future. Okay. But I still read them. The paper versions, the ones that stain your hands with ink and prove unwieldy on any type of public transportation. I buy a couple every day at the newsstands and read them before and after work. I'll almost always have one on the subway. And a few times a week, a fellow passenger peers down or leans over on the subway to read the paper along with me, as if it's a community activity. I'm reading about the Yankees or chaos in the state legislature and I'll sense - and eventually see - my 1 train neighbor gazing over my shoulder, intently poring over the headlines and text. Maybe he giggles at a cartoon or shakes his head at a ludicrous editorial from Charles Krauthammer. I'll always hesitate for a few seconds, as if I'm really concerned that the freeloader has finished the story. Occasionally the other person will actually sigh when I turn the page, annoyed that I've dared to move on to the next page. Can't I see they're still dissecting the movie review of The Expendables? Buddy, it's 50 cents. A bit more if you buy the Times. You obviously enjoy reading newspapers, you appreciate the reporting, the witty tabloid headlines and the writing. So toss a few quarters on the newsstand and support this dying industry. Or at least stop breathing on my cheek.

* Everyone remembers the classic Schwetty - or is it Schweddy? - Balls skit on Saturday Night Live.



I think I found one of the inspirations for the sketch. Here's another classic from KEYC-TV. This appeared on the Noon News, and apparently aired in 1986. That was a year before I started going home for lunch, so I probably missed this thorough examination of sugar, its benefits and dangers. Some people are meant to be on TV. Some people are meant to work in extension offices and help the public with valuable initiatives that teach people how to live healthy lives. Very few people are meant to work in an extension office and appear on TV.



I'd have more but I have to get back to my article and The Godfather. Also, the Lakers game is now in the fourth quarter. And, my uncle Mike's basketball team at Minnesota West just started their second game of the season and the school broadcasts the games online. I'm learning to multitask. And I'm learning from the best.

Jagged Edge: Entertaining movie about the world's worst newspaper editor

Police just arrested your handsome local newspaper editor for a double-murder. The DA says the editor - call him Jack - brutally killed his housekeeper, then stabbed his wife to death after tying her up in their own bed. He gave himself a bump on the head to make it look like the work of an intruder, although the injury didn't even cause a concussion. He did it for the money. The wife came from a rich family and the husband - Jack - inherits it all, including the Hearst-like media empire started by her beloved grandfather.

A few months later, the editor is a free man, out on $500,000 bail. In his spare time, he prepares his defense, woos his divorced, mother-of-two attorney, rides white horses while waxing poetically about their beauty and vulnerability, and vomits out sound bites to the local news hounds, all of whom still treat him like Ben Bradlee.

And he continues to serve as editor of the newspaper. And dictates coverage about the DA who's prosecuting him. He lords over editorial meetings, in a massive conference room with a large window that overlooks the printing presses.

That's the plot of Jagged Edge, which I just watched on Netflix. I've seen the Jeff Bridges-Glenn Close movie numerous times. It's a classic thriller, penned by Basic Instinct sreenwriter Joe Eszterhas. In the end (spoiler), Jeff Bridges' character - the passionate, dashing, yet murderous, editor - is found innocent. He has sex with his attorney, talks some more about horses, then tries to kill his lawyer when she discovers he's actually guilty. It's got great twists and solid performances - Bridges, Close, Peter Coyote as the slimy DA, and Robert Loggia, who earned an Academy Award nomination for his portrayal of an investigator who was surely described in the screenplay as "grizzled."

But even though I worked in newspapers for a decade and wanted to be a reporter 10 years before I ever stepped foot in a newsroom I never realized just how preposterous the movie was, especially when it came to portraying a newspaper editor. To recap: Jack Forrester is the editor of a large paper in San Francisco. He's accused of two murders, including his wife, who also happens to be the top executive at the same paper, a woman whose family has operated the paper for decades.

Yet early in the movie, there's a scene where Jack sits in a meeting while an editor talks about a profile the paper will do about the DA, who happens to be running for Senate while also prosecuting Forrester for the murders. The man is still at work. He implores his beleaguered, yet loyal staff to remain objective.

It makes sense that Forrester's a lying, thieving, manipulative murderer who happens to be an editor. Before he became the most famous screenwriter in the world, Eszterhas was a newspaper reporter in Cleveland and then a writer for Rolling Stone magazine. Surely somewhere down the line an editor cut one of Joe's stories down from 3,000 words to 1,000 and Eszterhas vowed to get back at the know-nothing, red-pencil-toting son of a bitch. Maybe one of his old editors sort of looked like Jeff Bridges, or at least like Beau. Whatever the case, Eszterhas turned a newspaper editor into an ultimate villain, a remorseless killing machine with a love of bondage and jagged knives.

It was just a movie. And a good one. But still...how did Forrester stay on staff during the murder trial? No one in upper management, none of his friends, none of his golfing buddies at the club, pulled him aside at the soda machine and said maybe it'd be a good time to take a leave of absence, "you know, until this thing about you slitting your housekeeper's throat and disemboweling your wife at your beach house blows over. We don't want to give our critics too much ammunition." And how did the reporters talk to him about their stories? "Jack, I think you, uh, sliced too much from the heart of the story."

Jack mans the head chair at editorial meetings, dictating city council coverage and weekend features about teachers who volunteer at homeless shelters. Then, during lunch, he retires to play racquetball with his lawyer as they debate a strategy that will keep him out of prison. It'd have been like OJ serving as an analyst on Monday Night Football in the fall of 1994.

A real-life newspaper equivalent? The New York Times editor marries a Sulzberger daughter and is charged with her murder (and kills the housekeeper). The Manhattan DA vows the editor will fry, though not literally in New York state. But the editor stays on, running point during the middle of election season. And no one has an issue with this. This movie makes Fletch look like a realistic portrayal of newspaper life.

I do have one other plot question, but, unfortunately, I have no real-life expertise in this matter. The movie ends with Glenn Close finding the typewriter Bridges used to send her mysterious and creepy notes throughout the trial. This convinces her he's guilty. She storms off, goes back home, cleans up, calls Bridges, tells him she found the typewriter and waits in bed for him to break in to the house. He does, she shoots him and that's it. But what was his motivation for killing her? Didn't double-jeopardy apply? He was acquitted. There was no fraud in the trial, no one bribed a judge or anything, which could be an exception to double-jeopardy, if my readings at Wikipedia Law School are accurate. And the typewriter didn't even necessarily prove he was the murderer. He could have just told her, "Great, you've got the typewriter I used to send creepy notes, what are you going to do?" The DA could not have put him back on trial, right?

Was he worried about losing his girlfriend? He thought he might bump into his attorney at some city functions and be embarrassed by the fact she knows he did what everyone thought he did but no one could prove?

It makes no sense. I think this was one final shot Ezsterhas delivered to his former industry. The famed screenwriter didn't just turn his editor into a heartless sociopath.

He also made him really dumb.

Joe Mauer is no Jake Taylor

A six degrees of separation type thing happening tonight. Or something.

Four days ago, character actor James Gammon died at the age of 70. Gammon might have been best known as playing the grouchy Lou Brown, the hard-scrabbled manager who improbably leads the Cleveland Indians to a division title in the classic movie Major League.

Tonight I saw Inception. Tom Berenger has a role in it. Berenger, of course, played grouchy catcher Jake Taylor, the veteran, over-the-hill tough guy whose guts and grittiness help the Indians to the title in Major League.

Tonight the Twins played the hapless Indians.

In the movie, Jake Taylor wins the one-game playoff against the hated Yankees with a surprise bunt down the third-base line. The winning run comes around from second to score.

Tonight, Joe Mauer stepped up to the plate with the score tied and runners on first and second. To the surprise of, well, everyone but the Major League screenwriter, Mauer bunted. He failed. The Indians got out of the inning a batter later. The Indians won the game. The Twins mourned. Their fans cursed. Writers wailed.

If Mauer was indeed inspired by a movie, couldn't it have been The Natural instead?

Now, if the Twins follow the plot to Major League II, next season Mauer will take over as interim manager for an ill Ron Gardenhire and lead the team to the AL pennant. And that really doesn't sound any more improbable than Mauer's bunt.

The Natural vs. Hoosiers

My two favorite sports movies are Hoosiers and The Natural, and in that order. In the end, Hoosiers gets the nod because it's about basketball, my favorite sport. But it's a close competition. In the past few weeks, each popped up on cable TV, one after midnight, another right before. And both times I dropped everything else to watch until the dramatic, over-the-top endings. I know practically every line from each movie by heart and use those lines in conversation the way other people reference Caddyshack and Airplane!

The teams in both movies feature grumpy, seen-it-all coaches, superstars, decent supporting role players, memorable music and boring women. A comparison:

SUPERSTARS: Jimmy Chitwood vs. Roy Hobbs. There's no doubt Roy Hobbs was a more charismatic performer, away from the game at least. Roy dated a glamorous blond woman. A femme fatale shot him early in his life. And through it all, Glenn Close apparently remained chaste, waiting for her one true love. Jimmy, on the other hand, probably never kissed a girl. The only woman he's close to is his tutor. With his soft voice and monosyllabic vocabulary, there's no way he was wooing the gals with his words. Still, he must have surely had a gaggle of farm gals waiting to offer themselves up to the local hoops star. In small town Indiana, the star basketball player ruled. And after that winning shot in the state finals, he could have had any girl in the land. But he probably simply went home and worked on the Mikan Drill.


On the court, though, the two were equally dominant. Both completely changed the fortunes of their teams. Both performed in the clutch, Jimmy hitting the winning jumper, Roy slamming the winning homer. Each awed coaches: Wilford Brimley's character, Pop, told Roy that he was the best goddamn hitter he'd ever seen. Cletus tells coach Norman Dale he's never seen a better player in 40 years than Jimmy Chitwood. High praise. Maybe a slight edge to Hobbs, since at that time there were many more great baseball players around than basketball players. Hobbs proves he can play with pain. He plays while knowing one swing could kill him. We never see Jimmy perform with a sprained ankle or injured finger. I'm sure he was a strong farm boy who would play through anything, but, again, the edge goes to Hobbs.

Both made legendary plays in their final games. Roy's was perhaps slightly more memorable - exploding lights trump a ball softly dropping through the net. Jimmy's overall effort in the championship was far superior, he completely carried the Hickory offense while Hobbs hobbled around like a 35-year-old with a bullet lodged in his intestine. His effort was so weak, the starting pitcher thought Roy might also be throwing the game for the Judge.

But still, the overall edge goes to Roy. It's the character, but maybe it's also the actor, too. Perhaps I'm just biased because Maris Valainis is no Robert Redford.

COACH/MANAGER: Norman Dale vs. Pop Fisher. A pair of classic old-school leaders. Both great coaches, certainly. But both also needed rescuing by their superstars. Pop and the Knights bumbled along in front of an empty stadium until Roy Hobbs strolled in, much to Pop's chagrin. He hated that his scouting department signed Hobbs. Coach Dale installed his patient, soul-crushing offense and discipline with Hickory, but was on the verge of being canned until Jimmy stepped forward and spoke some of his few words in the movie. Without Jimmy coach Dale's riding out of town, probably done with coaching for good. Who else would hire his tired old bones? Without Hobbs, Pop's team is dead. He loses the team to the Judge. And if Bump Bailey doesn't run into that wall, Hobbs probably remains a pinch-hitter, if that.

The edge goes to coach Dale. A basketball coach almost always has a bigger impact on his team than a baseball manager. Once the Knights started rolling, Pop settled into a Joe Torre role and had little to do, other than warning Roy away from his niece. He worked the media and massaged some egos and filled out his little lineup card but that's about it. Dale, meanwhile, led little ol' Hickory to the state title, bleeding every point out of his undermanned team and nearly nonexistent bench. He juggled Shooter's benders with the townsfolk's anger. He gave kick-ass speeches. It's still inexplicable that he called a play for someone other than Jimmy with the final shot - it'd be like Phil Jackson drawing up a play for Luke Walton in Game 7 of the Finals - but he eventually came to his senses after the team spoke up. We never learn how long Dale stayed in Hickory but I can't believe it was a long tenure. His style wears on players. He was always one bad pass away from pulling a Woody Hayes. Pop probably stayed on the bench until the day he died. They likely buried him in his tobacco-stained uniform. But give the overall edge to coach Dale.





ASSISTANTS: Shooter vs. Red. Big edge to Shooter, even with the violent outbursts and poisoned internal organs. Red's a nice enough guy, the Don Zimmer to Pop's Joe Torre. He subtly encourages Roy early, when it looks like Pop won't give the middle-aged rookie a shot. But again, a baseball bench coach has little effect on the overall product. If the Knights replaced him with an inanimate object, few would notice. He likely stepped in a few times when Pop got ejected but his main duties involved handling games of pepper and keeping up the lively chatter on the bench. Shooter's genius literally won a game, even though his madness nearly destroyed Hickory in the playoffs. Again, we need an epilogue. Red probably stayed on the bench until he was 90 and eventually retired to a small cabin in Minnesota. Shooter likely died in a single-car traffic accident or of cirrhosis. But he'll always have the picket fence.



SOURCE MATERIAL: Hoosiers is loosely inspired by the 1954 Milan team, the small school that captured the Indiana state title on a last-second shot by Bobby Plump. The Natural comes from the classic novel of the same name, written by Bernard Malamud. It's an outstanding book, but those who have only watched the movie might be disappointed reading it, as Roy Hobbs is slightly less heroic. In fact, he strikes out to end the final game after making a deal with the sinister Judge. No exploding lights, no reunion with a glowing Glenn Close in the fields. Instead, a boy - echoing the Shoeless Joe Jackson legend - asks Roy if the papers are right, if it's true that he threw the game. Hobbs begins weeping. Edge to Hoosiers and Milan, but only because it's not as depressing (but seriously, you should read The Natural, it's superb).

BARBARA HERSHEY: The veteran actress appeared in both films. It's a brief role in The Natural. She's the lady in black, Harriet Bird, who's apparently assassinating star athletes across the country. She sets her sights on "The Whammer" until Roy Hobbs upstages him at Janesville's Hay Daze, or some other small town fair. She's sexy and dangerous. In Hoosiers, Hershey's character, Myra Fleener, is neither of those things. She's a schoolmarm, a harsh woman who has little use for games or the people who play them. Even she gets caught up in Hickory's title run, but you get the feeling that after the team got home and had their welcome home party, she pulled Jimmy aside and reminded him that his 10-page paper about Andrew Jackson needed to be finished in time for Monday's 9 a.m. history class. Harriet Bird gets the edge. I'd like to see what Harriet Bird would have done with Jimmy Chitwood. Jimmy's so robotic - such a remorseless shooting machine, who might have been afraid of females - he probably wouldn't have even notice her flirting. And that would have saved his life.

ANNOYING CHARACTER/MASCOT: We all love Ollie in Hoosiers, but he's still a bit grating. Too small, too slow, just not good enough. Yes, he wins a game with his ludicrous granny free throw but his gaffes before that nearly cost the team the game. The most annoying character in The Natural, to me, is the pudgy bat boy, Bobby. The bat he made, the Savoy Special, does come to the rescue after Wonderboy breaks. But that comes right after my least-favorite scene in the movie. After giving the bat to Roy, the bat boy stands there, dumbfounded, paralyzed, unable to move his chubby legs, looking like someone just hit him in the head or stole his chocolate bar. His slow-developing smile looks like the one Danny Glick had when he floated outside the window in Salem's Lot. Roy has to nudge him off the field, as if he's saying, "Hey, kid, mind leaving so I can take this young flamethrower deep, destroy the lighting system, save the franchise for Pop and win the pennant, all in front of my one true love and my son?" I dislike everything about this kid: his hair, his too-high pants, his ridiculous hat, his gait.



MUSIC: Randy Newman created The Natural soundtrack, which has some of the most famous songs in sports movie history. Hoosiers isn't quite as memorable, although the music that plays after Jimmy's famous shot has traces of The Natural. When I played college ball, a teammate, who was so obsessed with Hoosiers he may have named his first kid Norman Dale Chitwood, bought the soundtrack to the movie. He hoped that it contained speeches and dialogue from the movie, the way soundtracks to films like Pulp Fiction had clips from the movie mixed in with the music. Nope. No Norman Dale speeches. No Jimmy Chitwood announcements. Nothing from Ollie. All it has is the instrumental music from the movie, which, by itself, is enjoyable but not very inspiring. Edge to Randy Newman and The Natural.





VILLAINS: Not really a fair comparison, since Hoosiers is a feel-good story that lacks a bad guy, other than early in the movie when George delivers his odd and uncomfortable "There's two kinds of dumb" speech involving naked guys barking at the moon. But even George joined the coach Dale cult by the end of the movie, though I'm sure he thought he could have led the team to a title as well with a wide-open offense. He's the kind of parent that lives in every small town, a coach's nightmare, until the coach wins. The Natural had numerous villains, from the Judge to the gambler Gus Sands. Then there's Harriet Bird. And Kim Basinger's Memo Paris, who might not be evil but was certainly bad news for Roy. Even Bump Bailey was something of a dark figure, right until the moment he ran through that wall.

ENDURING USE IN SPORTS AND LIFE: How many times did you hear Hoosiers referred to this year as Butler made its stunning run in the NCAA tournament? A hundred? That was impossible to avoid. Not only was Butler an underdog, but they came from Indiana. And they had a gangly white guy who led them in scoring and had a vague resemblance to Jimmy Chitwood. But people talk about Hoosiers all the time, not just when the team hails from Indiana. For 24 years, any basketball underdog that makes a surprising run brings out talk about Hoosiers, whether they're in the pros, college or high school. Hoosiers is now shorthand for a scrappy team that overcomes long odds and captures the hearts of millions, or at least thousands, or perhaps dozens. The phrase "the natural" still lives as well, but it doesn't seem quite as prevalent. It's usually referenced whenever a sweet-swinging lefty makes a big impact early in the majors. People often called Ken Griffey Jr. the natural and it fit. But sometimes it can be a bit premature, like when Sports Illustrated splashed Jeff Francoeur on its cover. Jeff Francoeur: decent player, no Roy Hobbs. Edge to Hoosiers.

Both movies have some flaws. But the genius of the movies hides the flaws, the same way Jimmy's perfect shooting made up for Hickory's lack of depth and size. They both came out a quarter century ago but nothing since has topped them. And chances are, nothing ever will.

What are you going to do, arrest us for watching Basic Instinct 27 times?

On Thursday night we went to Mankato to watch Iron Man 2. I missed much of the dialogue from the first 20 minutes as I discretely checked the Lakers score online. Yes, I hate those people who do that. We all do. I was ashamed (to be fair, I put my hands over it, blocking off the light and only let out a quiet yelp when I saw the Lakers won). But this was a Game 5 in a 2-2 series, always the most crucial game in a best of 7.

We try to get to Mankato for a movie on every trip home. We usually go during the week, almost always to a late show. Most times, the workers outnumber the customers, a welcome break from crowded New York City theaters. It feels like we rented out the whole theater to ourselves. Mankato was my movie home for 25 years. I've seen countless movies there. It's the go-to city in southern Minnesota for those who lived in towns that were often dismissed as places where kids "have nothing to do."

The first one I remember is Star Wars and I cried through most of it and people in the seats next to us probably looked at my parents - and their not-so-adorable baby - with the same looks people reserve for cell phone users in theaters today (the worst movie I ever saw a small child at has to be Saw II. I fully expect to read a story in 15 years about a young man who went on a killing rampage involving dynamite and cryptic clues and blames it on the fact his parents took him to the second Saw movie when he was 4 years old).

For years Mankato had two main theater spots: downtown and the Stadium theaters, across the street from the college formerly known as Mankato State University. Then in the early 1990s, River Hills mall opened and a dollar theater came along with it. The downtown theater - there used to be a fairly popular mall there as well - has always possessed a slightly creepy vibe. You usually parked in a garage, the type of dark structure often used as sets in movies involving serial killers or cities under siege from violent criminals. Something starring Charles Bronson, or Stallone in a Cobra remake.

As a teen we went to movies every weekend. We saw Home Alone in the downtown theater. Great movie for kids. Delightful for parents. Critics adored it, as did Macaulay Culkin's money-hungry parents. Unfortunately, we were all 16 years old. In the pre-Internet age, we didn't even know what the movie was about. One of our friends had heard it was really good. He insisted we go to it. He made it sound slightly dark: "Some kid gets left alone at home and two guys break in and chase him."

We realized it was a mistake - that we weren't quite the right demographic - early, but it probably didn't sink in for sure until the 23rd time Joe Pesci got hit in the head with a frying pan. We didn't listen to Martin's movie recommendations after that night.

But our main moviegoing days coincided with the opening of the dollar theater. A buck. They didn't get new releases, that was the catch. They were second-run movies, so the new ones appeared a month or two after they opened. Today, of course, movies are on DVD about two months after they open and the dollar theater long ago started charging normal prices. But we took full advantage of it as teens.

The dollar theaters kept their movies for weeks, months. As long as they made money, they stayed. Two movies held the record, I think, for longest stay: Wayne's World and Basic Instinct. And we saw each movie at least a dozen times. I'm pretty sure we saw Basic Instinct a few more times, probably around 16 or 17 viewings. Sharon Stone's crotch ultimately had more staying power than Mike Myers' catchphrases - insert obligatory Schwing joke. After the sixth or seventh viewing of Basic Instinct, it became a grim mission, almost as if it was our duty to watch it again. A week passed, we drove to Mankato, entered the theater and scanned the listings.

"Jesus, there's still nothing new."

"Basic Instinct?"

"No, we can't."

"Come on."

"Okay."

We knew every horrific line, including the immortal "He got off before he got offed." We waited for Sharon Stone to uncross her legs while an aroused Newman from Seinfeld stared in glee. By the 13th or 14th viewing, there was nothing sexual about it, even if we were teens with runaway hormones. Oh, there's the crotch. Hot. Come on, get to the ludicrous car chases again. We were addicted to the damn movie. Seeing it that many times felt dirty; it probably made an appearance in one of my Catholic confessions that year. But for a buck, you couldn't beat it.

We mourned when Gus died. Again. We cheered Michael Douglas. We shook our heads at the ending (for years, I wasn't sure that Stone's character was the killer, until finally, one late night in Worthington, my friend John completely convinced me. "Why else would she have the ice pick under the bed? That was the point of that shot. She was the killer. Everyone knows this." But I didn't want her to be the killer, she seemed like such a decent woman caught up in a web of murder, mayhem and laughable dialogue.) To this day, if I see Basic Instinct on TV, I instantly drift back in time to the dollar theater and their overpriced but delicious popcorn.

The dollar theater could delight. One night I went with my cousin Matt. A movie called Fortress caught our eye. Neither of us had ever heard of it. We didn't know anything about the plot or who starred in it. This was always dangerous; we were both still bitter about our Home Alone experience. It turned out to be a futuristic prison movie with Christopher Lambert. He wants to have a baby with his wife, the authorities don't allow it, fighting ensues. We loved it.

We only saw Fortress once. In the end, as entertaining as it was, it was no Basic Instinct. Thank God.

Norman Dale's antics would not be allowed in the NBA

Everyone remembers Norman Dale's Hickory High debut. Hoping to instill the type of military discipline that made him a success wherever he went, Dale insisted on four passes before a shot. The directive led to a stagnant first-half offense, upsetting the locals and his players. In the second half, an annoyed Rade ignores his coach, firing away right after crossing midcourt. The tactic slices into the lead, but enrages Dale. Having learned that punching a player is not the best way to deal with insubordination, Dale benches Rade. Near the end of the game, with Hickory out of it, a Hickory player fouls out. Rade starts to enter the game. Dale tells him to sit down. He tells him again. Then Dale says perhaps the most famous line from the best sports movie ever:




His team was on the floor. It stunned the crowd, delighted a visibly intoxicated Dennis Hopper (and his character, Shooter), and even embarrassed the opposing team - note the guy on the free-throw box who shakes his head in pity after the decision. Hey, pal, worry about your own team. Columnists and bloggers surely ripped Dale the next day, perhaps calling for his head or at least a thorough examination of it.

Friday night during the Golden State-Milwaukee game, we saw more proof that Dale coached in the right era. His form of discipline and motivation would not have a home in today's game. Golden State started the game with just eight players, due to numerous injuries. One player got hurt during the game. Then three more fouled out, the last being Stephen Curry with just four seconds left in the game. At this point Don Nelson could have quoted Norman Dale and earned the love and respect of hoops fans and movie aficionados everywhere. Instead the NBA rulebook ruined the moment. NBA Rule 3 (Section 1) states that a team must have five players on the court. "If a player in the game receives his sixth personal foul and all substitutes have already been disqualified, said player shall remain in the game and shall be charged with a personal and team foul. A technical foul also shall be assessed against his team. All subsequent personal fouls, including offensive fouls, shall be treated similarly."

NBA ref Joey Crawford - who's been around so long he might have ejected Norman Dale at some point in his career - said he'd never seen the rule come into play prior to Friday night. It didn't affect the outcome, as the Bucks won 113-104. And Golden State would have only played with four guys for four seconds. But it still would have been entertaining.

One year, Minnesota high school basketball actually implemented a rule where a player who fouled out could remain in the game, but the team received a technical for every subsequent foul. I think the rule only lasted a year. Jeff Van Gundy has often advocated eliminating the disqualification of a player with six fouls. The argument is that no other sport punishes player infractions by forcing them to leave the game. Who wants to watch the best players sit? One idea has been to have penalties beginning after five fouls. Not that the idea will ever come to your local NBA arena.

Having said all this, there is a slight chance that perhaps, just maybe, Dale's radical stubbornness might be allowed in the NBA. The rule addresses what happens when a player fouls out. But I didn't see anything online talking about what would happen if a coach simply wanted to send a message. What if Phil Jackson had tired of Kobe launching threes in a comeback attempt against the Cavs? After five players foul out, Kobe jogs to the check-in, only to be told by Phil to sit down. What happens? In other words, does Rule 3 (Section 1A) force a coach to put five guys out there, even if he only wants to play four? I don't know. Probably not. The league wouldn't want some beleaguered coach in full meltdown mode running two players out onto the court in an attempt to embarrass the league and his team (Kurt Rambis might be very close to such an on-court breakdown).

No, we'll never see a Norman Dale in the NBA. That's good in some ways, as his unimaginative offense would make the Knicks of the 1990s look like Paul Westhead's Loyola Marymount teams. Ol' Norman belonged in high school or college. Those were his teams, no matter how many guys were on the floor.

They're still hoping for a Titanic sequel

James Cameron's Avatar is now the second-highest grossing movie in history, behind his other megahit, Titanic. Many people expect it to eventually eclipse Leo, Kate and the tragic boat. I haven't seen Avatar so I can't ruin the ending for anyone.

And nearly everyone who saw Titanic during its long run in theaters surely knew the ending going in. Perhaps the only movie with a less-surprising conclusion was The Passion of The Christ. Even with that knowledge, Titanic still emotionally devastated millions of people, though much of the sadness was over DiCaprio's on-screen death and not so much the memory of the 1,500 real people who died. But how upsetting would the movie's ending had been if you didn't know the story, if you'd never heard of the Titanic? In America and elsewhere, the story's so well-known that the word Titanic now means much more than just a ship that sank. It's become a metaphor, used to describe everything from a failed energy company to a coach who refuses to resign and "goes down with the ship," like the Titanic's doomed captain.

But not everyone knows the story or is familiar with the myths or can recite the legends. Several of those people were Louise and her teenage friends, who saw the movie in Cape Town, unaware of the back story or the tragedy. The giddy girls watched in fascination as Jack sneaked onto the ship. They squealed as he charmed Rose. They mocked her cunning fiance. They wept in joy when Jack and Rose made love in a car.

Then came intermission, a real intermission where the crowd takes a break, heads to the bathroom and the concession stand and reflects on what they've seen, and speculates on what's to come. Louise and her innocent friends gathered in the bathroom, chattering nonstop about how the movie might end. How would Jack and Rose escape her mother and future husband? Where would they settle? Would they have kids? And isn't it so romantic and beautiful the way they found each other on that magnificent ship? They generally agreed that the movie up to that point was perfection, perhaps the most romantic film any of them had seen.

With intermission over and the theater lights dimming, the girls settled back into their seats. A few minutes into the second act, the Titanic struck the most famous iceberg in maritime history. Unsettled but still enjoying the show - "Ooh, they'll have to get off the ship now" - the girls continued watching in fascination. Of course the happy portion of the movie was long gone and the rest of the movie was devoted to death, the destruction of the ship and...Billy Zane running after Jack and Rose with a gun (the movie was not 100 percent historically accurate).

By the time Rose drifted off to sleep while Jack's lifeless body floated next to her, Louise and her friends had collectively broken down, sobbing and bawling and whimpering. They didn't understand how a film could be so cruel, not knowing the real story was just as devastating.

On the car ride home, Louise and her friend had to pull over to the side of the road. The shock and disarray left them unable to drive. Comforting each other, their cries lasted several more minutes. That was nearly 13 years ago. The wounds they suffered haven't healed. Today, whenever TBS or TNT breaks out an "All Titanic" weekend, Louise refuses to be in the room if the television happens to linger on the movie for a few minutes.

When Louise tells this story, people are often incredulous, unable to believe that her group of friends didn't know the true story behind the movie. "Everyone's" heard of the Titanic, but maybe just everyone in America, not necessarily the rest of the world. We'd probably have the same reaction - perhaps with less hysterics - if we went to a movie based on an event few have ever heard of, even if everyone in another part of the world is well aware of the story. How many people have heard of the Dona Paz, a Philippine ferry that sank in 1987, killing more than 4,300 people? Imagine going into a movie not knowing the history of the doomed vessel. The first 90 minutes of the movie are devoted to romance and derring-do on the ferry. Look, it's a love story for the ages. By the end, after thousands have died, the reaction in the theater would probably be similar to the reaction in the Cape Town theater after people watched Titanic.

Louise is now in Cape Town. I'll join her in a week and a half. We've talked about seeing Avatar there. Maybe even in the same theater that played Titanic all those years ago. I don't know how Avatar ends, whether it's tragic, uplifting or deflating. But no matter how it concludes, Louise will be all right. Because if watching Titanic without knowing how it ended didn't crush her, nothing in James Cameron's make-believe world will be a problem.

And somewhere out there is someone who's never seen Titanic or Star Wars

Three or four years ago I bought what I believed was going to be one of the best presents of the year for Louise: A Christmas Story DVD. I've yet to meet a single person who hasn't seen it and everyone that's watched it loves it.

To many people it's the most classic of Christmas movies, even ahead of another perennial favorite, It's a Wonderful Life. Every scene is memorable, every line quotable.

The tongue on the cold post.
"My little brother had not eaten voluntarily in over three years."
"You'll shoot your eye out, kid."
"Some men are Baptists, others are Catholics; my father was an Oldsmobile man."
The leg lamp.
Randy lay there like a slug. It was his only defense.
Scut Farkus
My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium, a master.

And on and on. Anyone who doesn't own the movie can usually watch it during TNT's annual 24-hour marathon, a perverse programming decision that somehow only delights fans of the movie. Of course it's overkill, but the only reason it seems to upset people is that it's not a 48-hour marathon.

So I just knew Louise would love the movie. This is someone who actually bought a leg lamp - just like Ralph's old man - during a trip to Fargo, and didn't understand when several people told her it was just like from A Christmas Story. So how could she not enjoy the movie that gave birth to the lamp? She'd unwrap it and pop it into the DVD in one motion. Then we'd sit back and laugh.

Four years later, and she's still never seen it. No reason, really. It's just sort of...happened, or not happened. She hasn't had any desire to watch it. Maybe she's heard too much about it and it's been built up too much. Maybe she's sick of me quoting the best lines. And somehow she's avoided it during those all-day marathons. I feel like restraining her, taping her eyes open and forcing her to watch every second. Then she would learn to love it. I'd say she hates Christmas and that's the reason for the boycott, but judging by the crazed Christmas tree decorating session and December shopping excursions, that's not true either. Instead, A Christmas Story is that one movie that everyone has seen that she hasn't, something most people have in common, though the films are always different.

I know people who have somehow never seen the first two Godfathers. But have seen Part 3. Friends of mine who are avid baseball fans haven't seen The Natural. Talk to them about Roy Hobbs' final at-bat and they greet you with a blank stare.

"The bloody shirt. Old bullet wound. Pennant on the line. Broken bat. Home run. Exploding lights."

"Meh, doesn't sound that great."

Some so-called basketball fans have never seen Hoosiers. Up until a few years ago, a close relative of mine had never seen Braveheart, which would make sense if the person was a descendant of Edward Longshanks but seems improbable for anyone else.

The movie I've never seen that always surprises people when they hear about it? Grease. Some people take pride in the fact they've never seen movies or read a famous book that seemingly everyone else has seen or read multiple times. It's not like that with me, at least not consciously. It's just that I've never gone out of my way to watch it. While I'm not the biggest fan of musicals, people whose opinions I trust rave about the movie and insist I'll love it upon first viewing. But I've never rented it and have never stopped on whatever channel it's playing on Saturday afternoons. I know the characters, the story and the songs. I know the look and the styles. For all intents and purposes, I feel like I've seen it.

But the thing that bothers people the most when I tell them I've never seen Grease is that I have seen - and thoroughly enjoyed - Grease 2, the much-maligned sequel starring a young Michelle Pfeiffer and an unknown English actor named Maxwell Caulfield. I saw it with a friend in the theater when it first came out. We went with his parents. After the movie, we stopped at a small liquor store. Knowing now how many people hate Grease 2, perhaps his folks were trying to drink away memories of the night. But I liked it then, and I'll stop and watch it anytime it's on these days. The foreign exchange student trying to win the heart of the girl he loves - or at least lusts after. The songs about patriotism and getting laid. "A girl for all seasons." The epic motorcycle jump over the pool. Highly enjoyable.

"If you've seen that one, and liked it, then you will love Grease because the original is about 100 times better," I've been told. And I believe them. But there's a mental block, something keeping me from finally sitting down and watching the damn thing.

Everyone has these movies. Or maybe it's a TV show. For instance, I've never seen an episode of HBO's The Wire, even though friends of mine stutter and practically pass out when talking about the show. Numerous critics have called it the greatest show in the history of television, which sounds like a Bill Walton-type overreaction but is probably true. I don't doubt its greatness. But we don't have HBO and I've never rented it and have turned down offers for the DVD. Don't know why. And I understand when people get incredulous; it's the same reaction I have when they profess no desire to ever watch Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Yes, we all have these shows. If I was into resolutions, maybe that would be one of mine: to watch Grease. But I'm not so 2010 will likely be another Grease-free year. I'm not ashamed of this but I'm also not proud of it.

But, if you haven't seen Godfather or Godfather II...how do you live with yourself?

Why I'm suddeny a rugby - and cricket - fan

The movie I'm most looking forward to seeing this month opens up Friday. It's getting Oscar buzz, primarily because of the participants and the theme. Hopefully, the actual product lives up to the hype.

Invictus stars Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela, while Matt Damon portrays a rugby superstar. Clint Eastwood directed the film. The movie tells the story of South Africa's victory in the 1995 rugby World Cup (um, spoiler alert).

I've previously heard stories of that particular championship from Louise's family, especially her brothers and stepfather, avid sportsmen. Even Louise remembers the event, a remarkable achievement for a woman who rarely participates in any sport and never watches them on television. She does enjoy attending an occasional Yankees game, but that's primarily because of the Cracker Jacks. And she had a good time at a Knicks game we attended, although that was because she had a pair of binoculars and two hours free for celebrity watching. Even South Africa's favorite sports such as cricket, soccer and rugby hold little interest to her. But she remembers that 1995 World Cup.

The unexpected title brought the country together just after apartheid had ended and Mandela became president. It's sort of like if the 1980 Miracle on Ice team had won gold around the time of the Civil War.

I'm looking forward to it even though I still only have a vague understanding of the rules of rugby. I've watched it in this country and in South Africa. My brother-in-law was a star player himself. My old editor played in college and continued to roll around on the - pitch? - well into his adult years. I know rugby players like to drink. I know they take a hell of a beating, and that I never could have made it as a player, even in my younger days. But understanding strategy and rules and nuances and history and what the players in short-shorts are doing in the odd-looking groupings? No.

When we travel to Cape Town in January, I'd love to watch the movie with a South African audience, an experience that would probably be similar - though a hundred times more uplifting - to the time we watched Blood Diamond in Cape Town in 2007. South Africans are not afraid to express their happiness in a public setting. When our plane landed - successfully - on our previous trip, the passengers erupted in applause. If they knew something I didn't about the airline, I wanted to know before the return trip to America.

"Are they surprised we made it alive?" I asked Louise.

"No, they're just so happy to be back in their homeland and they cheer when they're happy."

So I can imagine the applause in the theater when the South Africans win the World Cup.

Pretty much all of South Africa's favorite sports are...foreign to me, as I fulfill my role as the American who hasn't yet learned enough about another culture. But I have tried. Jesus, I've tried.

During our six-week stay in Cape Town three years ago, I must have watched a dozen hours of televised cricket, which many people might think is about as interesting as listening to crickets for 12 hours. With the help of Louise's family, I started picking up some of the basics of the game and actually got caught up in some of the more exciting moments, even if I occasionally had to be told when an exciting moment was taking place. Once I started to understand a little bit about the game, I found myself actively rooting for the home team. I almost instinctively began disliking the squads from India, Pakistan and England, though I'd previously had little reason to feel anything about those countries' sporting teams.

Louise went to school with one of South Africa's star players, providing a celebrity gossip angle to the proceedings, something I require with my sports, like other American fans (see Woods, Tiger).

Thanks to one of Louise's brothers, I even attended a match, complete with an alcohol-and-food-laden suite. Unfortunately, my stomach's continuing struggle with adapting to the country's food meant I spent half the day wondering if I'd make it back to my in-laws' home alive, and the other half wishing for death. But even in that physical condition, I appreciated the athleticism of the players and the intensity of the event, the types of things fans of any sport understand, no matter the country.

By the end of our time in Cape Town I'd become a cricket fan, although not a knowledgeable one. I look forward to watching more of it, on television and in person, this January.

And I'm looking forward to Invictus this Friday. I'm certainly not the world's biggest rugby fan, but I am a fan of the story the history, and, most importantly, the country.

Now, all I need is for someone to tell me what is going on in this video.

If the world's ending, I want Nicolas Cage to take me through it

We attended back-to-back movies on Thanksgiving, forgoing turkey and choosing to fight the post-parade crowds that streamed through 42nd Street in Times Square. First movie, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. Nicolas Cage plays a cop on the edge...yeah, already sounds like a movie to avoid. As always, though, I was entertained by a Cage film, a streak that's been intact since about 1995. Through The Rock, Ghost Rider, National Treasure, The Wicker Man, and even The Weather Man, I'm always up for a Cage fest. The preening. The shouting. The wide eyes. The hair.

His performances keep getting more and more bizarre, even though it seems like the roles don't always call for it. Bad Lieutenant does require it. From tripping out and seeing iguanas where there aren't any, to publicly banging a party girl while her stupefied boyfriend watches nearby, Cage manhandles every scene. He portrays a druggie detective who revels when he gets to play "bad cop," apparently believing subtlety is a sign of weakness in an actor.

Then we saw 2012, the apocalyptic movie extraordinarily loosely based on the extraordinarily ridiculous Mayan predictions about the end of the world (note: if the world does indeed end in a fiery mess on December 21, 2012, please feel free to leave a taunting comment on this post before you and your computer immolate and/or get crushed by shifting Earth crust or an asteroid). The movie fulfills its requirements of destroying notable cities and structures in impressive fashion, from D.C. to the Vatican.

John Cusack plays the down-on-his luck writer who fights for survival, his kids and the woman he loves. Or something. Mostly it's all about Cusack and his son and daughter avoiding falling LA buildings, collapsing runways (twice, in fact) and volcanic eruptions. And that's just in one day.

Cusack does his typical good work in the movie, although I'll forever claim that his career role came in one of his first movies, when he played Lane Myer in Better off Dead (Say Anything? If I was female, I might agree that was his best role). But as tolerable as Cusack is in 2012, it felt like the movie was missing something. And that something was...Nicolas Cage.

This was a role that should have been written for Cage, the somewhat-troubled middle-aged guy searching for hope in a world without a future. Actually, he recently played this role in Knowing and Next so perhaps he's done with the genre and would never have considered it. Still, while Cusack plays a good everyman, a movie about killer tsunamis, present-day arks, government conspiracies and exploding national parks (get to Yellowstone before 2012, if you're inclined to believe the Mayans) screams out for Cage's bulging eyes, weary expressions and half-crazed cackles. Cusack's acting past and well-known mannerisms make me think he'll greet the latest disaster with an aw-shucks grin and shrug. Cage would have defied the Mayans and Mother Nature, challenging each disaster with nothing more than his mane and machismo.

The movie's a two-hour hoot, even if I think the inspiration behind the plot is a bunch of nonsense. The packed house at the Thanksgiving Day showing erupted in cheers at the end of the movie (so I don't spoil the ending, I won't tell you if they were applauding the Earth's destruction, or its salvation).

I've written before about my skepticism of apocalyptic visions and predictions. They seem shakier than the sweaty, overexcited, overweight gamblers who used to hijack late-night TV and tout their predictions for that week's NFL games. I don't doubt that the world is someday going to end. It'll go out in a way that's probably quite uncomfortable for the poor souls here to witness it. Bill Bryson's superb book A Short History of Nearly Everything documents the countless ways Earth could heartlessly rid itself of humans and every other creature.

But I don't put much stock in apocalyptic religious texts written long ago by common men hoping for a destructive end at the hands of an unknowable but highly agitated god.

And I don't think an ancient civilization predicted the year or exact date it will happen. It seems like many of the people who are inclined to believe the Mayan 2012 call are the same people who are proud skeptics in every other facet of their life. They don't trust the government. They think The Man's out to get them. They refuse to listen to five-day forecasts because "you can't trust weathermen to get anything right." Yet they'll put faith in end-of-world predictions delivered by a group of people who lived thousands of years ago.

I think the Earth still has a decent future. And as long as Nicolas Cage keeps churning out movies, the world will be a better, crazier place. Get him in the 2012 sequel.

What's in a name? A lot of Fury

One night in Fargo, a long-haired young employee at a gas station looked at a check I wrote and said, "Man. Fury. That's an awesome name. I'd kill for that name. You must get all the chicks."

I smiled and nodded politely, refusing to confirm or deny. "Why, what's your name," I asked.

"Johnson."

Ahem.

Anyway, I agreed with his general point. I've always loved my name, first and last. Shawn Fury. It has a great ring to it, much better than something like, say, Tom Fury. Especially with Shawn being spelled the correct way. If my name was Joe Smith, Shawn Fury is the type of name I'd take as a pseudonym when I published my first mystery thriller and didn't want longtime readers of my poetry to know I was dabbling in popular fiction.

A lot of people back home in Janesville still pronounce it "furry." Maddening. And robs the name of any cool factor. An old teacher of mine always pronounced it that way, until I wrote a note one day reminding him that it was pronounced as if it was spelled f-e-a-r-y.

Or, as Louise pronounces it - and others who speak English with more grace than we do - fury as in fur(y)ious.

Every time I see Fury - or fury - mentioned in a movie or in a headline or a book or a new product, I get a bit of a thrill out of it. It's the little things in life.

The latest comes from the Mad Max movies. The new one - which won't star Mel Gibson, Tina Turner or a Thunderdome - is likely to be called Fury Road. The plot remains unknown. But it will almost certainly involve violence, post-apocalyptic wars, heroes, midgets, dust, villains and a kick-ass chase involving cars and cycles on something called...Fury Road.

The New York Post is known for its creative headlines - "Headless Body in Topless Bar", "Ho No" (Spitzer scandal), "Stinko de Mayo" (Yankees loss on May 5). But from a selfish standpoint, the ones I enjoy most are when they throw a fury into a headline, which seems to happen two or three times a week. It's a perfect tabloid-headline word, like thug or perv. "Fury fueled by emptiness." "Britney's Fury" (accompanied by Britney Spears attacking a car with an umbrella). "Hill Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned." (Hillary Clinton story).

For Christmas one year my mom ordered "Fury Basketball" sweatshirts from the CBA's Fort Wayne Fury, likely setting the team's one-day record for merchandise sales. She passed them out to all the big basketball fans in the family, meaning pretty much everyone. As far as I know, no major professional sports teams have been nicknamed the Fury, but the Detroit Fury played Arena football. In classic Arena League trying-too-hard fashion, the team's logo probably produced more seizures than cheers.

If an expansion team in any major pro league ever takes the nickname, maybe the franchise will give me lifetime season tickets to all the games, in some type of ill-conceived goofy promotion.

Perhaps the most famous Fury in the culture is William Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury. Not sure how many people have actually read the classic book, but that particular phrase has worked itself into popular culture and the minds of newspaper copy editors everywhere. It's particularly handy when writing about loudmouth wide receivers who are also angry with their role in the offense.

Salman Rushdie wrote Fury. Thankfully, no Fatwa's were issued after its publication. According to an anonymous editor at Wikipedia, "this is considered to be the least known Rushdie novel." Hey, don't blame the title.

The Fury by John Farris is a famous novel that Brian de Palma turned into a movie.

There's a heavy metal band from Australia called the Fury.

The most dangerous Fury in history was the killer Plymouth Fury in the movie Christine, based on the Stephen King novel.


And everyone knows Lassie, but how many baby-boomers remember another heroic animal? Fury was a beloved stallion starring in a show of the same name from 1955-1960. Featuring Peter Graves, pre-Mission: Impossible, the show's plot usually "involved a guest star who got into mischief, was rebellious or disorderly and got into trouble because of it, and subsequently was rescued by Fury."

I never saw the show. But just from that description - and the name - I have no doubt that Fury the beloved stallion would have kicked Mr. Ed's ass.

There are Furies everywhere you look, but in its plural form, the word and name loses some of its edge. Even if Furies were mythical creatures.

Military forces understand the word's ability to intimidate. The British had something called the Hawker Fury, an aircraft and apparent partner of the Hawker Sea Fury. The U.S.'s invasion of Grenada in 1983 was called Operation Urgent Fury. They could have saved the word for a takeover of a larger country.

It's not like I picked Fury for a name, so I can't take any type of credit for it. But I still enjoy it, the way it sounds and the images the word sparks. If I was an angry person it'd be an even cooler last name. Or perhaps people would say I was just the victim of a self-fulfilling prophecy, that my inner rage and outward hostility were the fault of my last name. And I credit my parents for the Shawn portion of the name, and thank them for not going the e-a-n route.

Fury. Still sounds cool.

In fact, Louise claims she married me just for the last name. Guess the Fargo gas-station attendant was right.