Reeling Backward: "Major League" (1989)

My affection for baseball movies is a puzzle, even to me. I don't care for the sport at all, but it's rendered a lot of great fictional legends over the years. Perhaps it's because you only see tiny snippets of the game, and just the interesting stuff.

Baseball may be the most boring sport, but perhaps precisely because the mind wanders so much, it's the one that best lends itself to storytelling.

I never got around to seeing "Major League" at the time, and had little interest. It seemed like a big, dumb, crude movie about and for jocks. In a lot of ways it's the apotheosis of "Bull Durham," which came out a year earlier and was more my speed. That film was about people who happened to be connected by minor league ball; it was very much of baseball but not about baseball.

"Major League" was a big hit that spawned two sequels and has become embedded in the lore of baseball in a way that hasn't really happened with football or basketball flicks. Players and broadcasters frequently reference the film, such as catcher David Ross filming a tribute upon the movie's 25th anniversary in which he played most of the major roles himself.

It launched or buoyed a lot of careers. "Wild Thing," aka Ricky Vaughn, probably remains Charlie Sheen's most memorable role as the oddly coifed badboy pitcher who eats a big slice of humble pie when he's made to wear dweeby glasses to improve his control issues. It made Wesley Snipes, playing Willie Mays Hayes, the speedster base-stealer, such a big star to the extent he declined to appear in the sequel.

This was also the period of Peak Corbin Bernson, who specialized in playing well-groomed, blond preppy dicks, most notably on TV's "L.A. Law." Here he's Roger Dorn, the highest-paid and sole marquee player on a team of misfits and has-beens. Tom Berenger, already a big star, bought a few more years in the spotlight as Jake Taylor, a broken-down veteran given one last shot at the majors before his balky knees give out.

Dennis Haysbert and Renee Russo both made their big-screen debuts (other than tiny cameos) at age 35 in "Major League," and have gone on to long and productive film and television careers. He played Pedro Cerrano, the voodoo-worshiping power hitter who has trouble with the curve; she was Lynn Wells, Jake's spunky ex- and, he hopes, future wife.

Bob Uecker plays the Indians' play-by-play announcer, Harry Doyle, who generously tips a bottle of bourbon into his coffee, and tries to spin gold to the mostly-empty seats.

Probably the unlikeliest career boost was to James Gammon, the (now) famously gravelly voiced manager of the team. The rare cameraman-turned-actor, Gammon bounced around for years playing cowboys and tough guys. With that iconic voice, which sounds like a motorized purr, and authoritative mien, Gammon would go on to a very busy career in the 1990s and aughts, doing movies, plays, television ("Nash Bridges") and voice work ("The Iron Giant").

Gammon steals pretty much every scene he's in, and "Major League" remains his signature role.

(A personal aside and missed opportunity: Gammon owned a horse ranch in the Ocala, Fla., area while I was a reporter and later entertainment editor at the Ocala Star-Banner. I tried to hook up with him a number of times for an interview, but he preferred his privacy when not working. He died at age 70 in 2010.)

The plot from writer/director David S. Ward is a pretty typical sports underdog story: the beloved owner of the Cleveland Indians passes away of old age, and his spoiled bitch trophy wife (Margaret Whitton), a former Las Vegas showgirl, decides to decamp the organization to Miami for warmer pastures and a huge, modern stadium built with local tax dollars.

(The Miami Marlins would, of course, go on to do just that four years later.)

Her contract with the MLB says she can move the team if attendance falls below 800,000 people for the season. So the roster is packed with newbies, problem children, creaky old minor-leaguers, wannabes and never-beens. The plan is to tank the season, drive the fans away and say hello to ocean breezes.

Gammon plays Lou Brown, manager of the minor league Toledo Mud Hens, brought in to run the circus into the ground. When he first fields the phone call with the offer, Lou is at his off-season job, running the service desk at a local tire shop; he puts the Indians' general manager on hold to haggle with a customer about some whitewalls.

Even if you haven't seen the movie, I think we all know how this turns out: after a run of comedically atrocious performances, the ragtag team starts to gel, overcomes cultural differences and personal beefs to make an unexpected run at the title. The villainous owner buckles down even harder, trading in their team jet for an aged propeller plane and later a smoke-filled bus, but that only brings them closer together.

In perhaps the film's most famous bit, Lou Brown places a life-size cutout of the owner in the locker room, promising to remove one piece of clothing for every win. They make it to the big game, facing off against their longtime rivals the New York Yankees, as the last piece is removed to reveal her pastie-covered woobies.

Interestingly, for what's remembered as a bawdy comedy, this is the closest we come to any female nudity in the film -- though there's male asses aplenty.

The side plot stuff is pretty lame, mostly revolving around dalliances with women. Ricky is seduced by a strange woman who turns out to be Dorn's wife, seeking revenge for his brazen philandering. Their inter-team squabble plays out literally during the down moments of the championship game. (It's never really explained why self-styled badass Ricky is afraid of the team dandy, the guy who won't sacrifice his body to shag a ground ball.)

Jake's redemption is rather half-hearted. He admittedly slept around like crazy on Lynn, took her for granted, and hasn't spoken to her in three years as the story opens. Yet he expects her to drop everything she's doing to fall back into his burly arms, including giving the heave-ho to her rich jerk lawyer fiance.

In one awkward scene, Jake stumbles into a party hosted by Lynn's beau, and he is politely interrogated over his career prospects. The snooty rich guests don't even know the name of the Cleveland team, or recognize him as the starting catcher. Jake is forced to confess that he has no idea what he'll do after baseball, and that he earns the "league minimum."

(What the filmmakers don't tell you is this amounted to $62,500 in 1989. That's about $123,000 in today's dollars -- hardly mortifying chump change.)

Most of the actors reasonably pass themselves off as pro athletes. Berenger looks like a jock's jock, and Sheen was an actual pitcher in high school who reportedly got his fastball up to the mid-80s m.p.h. during production. (With a little help from steroids, according to Sheen himself.) I was struck how there are no six-packs or bulging muscles; these are normal male bodies, though more in shape than average. It was another age then.

Another enduring tidbit from the film is Jobu, the fictional voodoo god worshiped by Cerrano, including a miniature shrine built in his locker complete with rum and cigars. You can still buy little Jobu dolls, which look like a well-tanned version of Doc Brown from "Back to the Future," and other merch from "The Jobu Lifestyle" website. During their 2016 World Series run, the actual Cleveland Indians built their own modern-day Jobu shrine.

This brings me to the question of the relationship between the city and the ersatz version of their team presented in "Major League." The Cleveland portrayed in the movie is a grimy, polluted blue-collar town where the residents constantly bad-mouth their baseball team in between itinerantly going to watch them play in a run-down, cheap-looking stadium. (Actually Milwaukee County Stadium.)

"They're shitty," relates the Greek chorus, otherwise known as the team of Japanese stadium groundskeepers, using subtitles.

Usually sports movies employ fictional names and settings, as in this one, which recently appeared in this space. I'm surprised the Indians agreed to have their likeness used in a not-exactly-flattering portrait of the team and town.

I'm not sure if "Major League" deserves to be immortalized quite like it has. The jokes are pretty straightforward, and the locker room misogyny of the film hasn't aged well. (If it ever looked passable in the first place.) But it's got some distinctive characters, the baseball action is convincing and there's plenty of fun to be had. Call it a stretch double.

Reeling Backward: "The Wraith" (1986)

"The Wraith" is what happens when a cool idea for a movie gets run over by the '80s.

Or should I say, this 1986 sci-fi/adventure is what happens when filmmakers borrow a whole bunch of ideas from other, better movies and toss them together without much rhyme or reason. This weird, awful, but strangely compelling flick seems like it checked the "all of the above" box in trying to appeal to different demographics.

On the one hand, it's a racing picture about a bunch of hooligans who seem to have taken over the roads, with inept law enforcement holding a tenuous grip on the thin white line between life and death. Then a solitary figure appears driving a super-advanced car out to dispense a little vigilante justice. It's not too hard to see the liberal borrowing from the "Mad Max" movies.

The "Wraith" car itself bears a great resemblance to other futuristic vehicles throughout cinematic history, especially the "Knight Rider" TV show that was popular during that era. This car doesn't talk, but it does seem to exist as an entity of its own that joins its life force to the mission of its driver.

Then there's the drippy romance portion, in which Charlie Sheen and Sherilyn Fenn make gooey eyes at each other, falling almost instantly in love and having sex (not necessarily in that order). Although in actuality, he's secretly her murdered lover, brought back from the dead in an even dreamier form. At times, their pairing has an almost John Hughes feel to it, teenage hormones mixed with fatalistic we-were-meant-to-be-together claptrap.

Occasionally, the Wraith appears outside of his car, and when he does so he wears a black suit of armor that resembles a cross between "Predator" (although that film did not come out until a year later), the boogums from "Alien" and Mad Max's leather outfit.

For some reason, the Wraith has twisty metal rods festooning his suit, and every time he takes revenge on one of the members of the road gang who killed him, they vaporize and disappear. My guess is they're supposed to be braces since the murdered guy was cut up by his enemies and Jake, the reincarnation of him played by Sheen, bears matching scars along his back and throat.

Since his former self didn't sustain any crippling injuries along his arms and legs, it's a puzzle as to why his new body requires support for his limbs. Furthermore, why the heck would they disappear each time he kills one of his killers, as if some sort of prophecy is being fulfilled?

Stylistically, "The Wraith" has some notable qualities, but metaphysically it's roadkill.

Writer/director Mike Marvin populates his film with a bunch of one-note weirdos and stock characters. Sheen seems almost indifferent to his time onscreen -- which, for the top-billed actor, he has surprisingly little of. He plays the classic new guy in town who stands up to the local tough, offering words of encouragement to the local pushed-around shrimp and smoldering gazes for Keri (Fenn), the hot squeeze next door.

Nick Cassavetes has a couple of neat scenes as Packard, the head of the road gang. He has a fixation on Keri, keeping her close by his side despite her constant protestations that she doesn't love him. At one point he coolly slices his hand open in front of her to demonstrate his conviction: "When you can't feel anything, you can do anything."

The gang's M.O. is simple: Find the owner of a hot car, force him to compete in a race for the title to his ride, and then sell it off to fund their own gearhead dreams. Of course, in the classic motif of films of this ilk, the worst piece of weaponry Packard can summon is a switchblade. Despite being set in Arizona, long a land of fierce gun advocates, none of the locals are packing any heat.

The car itself is kind of a write-off. It was based on a concept car, the Dodge M4S, that actually became a pace car for the Indianapolis 500 in the early 1980s. The filmmakers slapped some customized exterior pieces on it, the most noticeable effect being to make the rear end look like it's six feet longer than it should be. Jake, when he turns over the keys to the shrimp at the end of the movie, refers to it as a "Turbo Interceptor," though no one has ever called it this before.

Marvin's race scenes are shot with a keen eye, and the stunts and car crashes are generally pretty cool for a low-budget film. There's some jump-cutting and other effects that were fairly innovative for the time. The Wraith car/driver only seems to have one trick -- racing ahead of his opponent, then stopping in the road to force him to crash into him. After the fireball has subsided, the car reappears magically.

I did greatly enjoy Clint Howard as Rughead, the resident scientific genius of Packard's gang. He designs all sorts of advancements for their cars, though the Wraith shows up with a shotgun and blows them all to pieces before they ever get on the road. There's one terrific scene were Rughead demands the Wraith open his hood so he can attach some sort of jamming doohickey that's supposed to disable the car if a racer runs away -- again, it's something talked about but which never actually comes into play.

Rughead is surprised when the rear compartment of the car opens up instead of the front, and when he peers inside the strange engine actually pulses in a rhythmic, sexual way. The reaction shot of Howard, adorned with an Eraserhead hairdo and his face lit up orange by the glow of the unearthly technology, is a keeper.

For some reason, the Wraith does not identify Rughead as one of his targets, driving right past him at one point to plow into the garage where two other gang members are toiling. Sheriff Loomis, the local lawman played by Randy Quaid who talks a lot but makes few arrests, even declares all of the members of Packard's gang dead, despite the fact Rughead is still kicking.

"The Wraith" is not any kind of quality filmmaking, but I'm still glad I saw it. I was expecting something darker and scarier, and instead it's a big glop of Hollywood cheese, sliced from half a dozen other movies. Still, as a piece of '80s zeitgeist it offers something of a glimpse into the national psyche of the time -- not to mention the feather hairdos and jean jackets.

1.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Lucas" (1986)

"Lucas" is one of those movies that you look back on and are flabbergasted by how many talented young performers appeared in it. Corey Haim, Charlie Sheen, Kerri Green, Courtney Thorne-Smith, Tom Hodges and Jeremy Piven would go onto careers of varying length and quality, but the collective impact is just tremendous. It even featured a 13-year-old Winona Ryder in her very first screen role.

Other than "School Ties," it's hard to think of other movies where so many youngsters have so forcefully announced themselves to the world. Another is Ryder's own "Girl, Interrupted" from 1999, which was to have been her big Oscar showcase but ended up as the launching pad for Angelina Jolie, Brittany Murphy, Clea Duvall and Elisabeth Moss.

"Lucas" didn't make many waves at the box office back in 1986, but it's gone on to become a cult hit on video. It's a tender drama with both comedic and tragic undertones, and does a better job of busting out of the jocks-vs.-nerds conformity than do most teen movies.

It was written and directed by David Seltzer, who's had a long screenwriting career and also directed three other features besides "Lucas,' his first. ("Punchline" and "Shining Through," both underrated in my opinion, among them.) He's got a nice touch with his cast, who don't try to fit their characters into squares and circles, but let them breathe -- their failings, idiosyncrasies and goodness seem to just spring out of them naturally, rather than being forced by the necessities of the plot.

Lucas, despite being the stereotypical outcast at Park High, doesn't moan and mope about his status. He seems perfectly content with being different, because that's who he is, even if it means occasionally getting picked on by the football team members. Like jocks at most high schools, real or fictional, they assume their prowess on the playing field entitles them to special treatment, especially from teachers and administrators who will turn a blind eye to their hooliganism.

But not all athletes are bad guys, they just react to the environment around them. Their primary relationships are defined by competition, so that's how they think they should interact with everyone. Lucas, who's only 14 and small, becomes their target of choice.

He's probably do better if he just kept his head down, but Lucas has the gumption to talk back -- so much so that his nickname is Leukoplakia, or cancer of the mouth. How many kids would've come up with such an esoteric insult? Maybe it was Lucas himself, who's a science whiz who's been bumped ahead a couple of grades, and some dolt overheard him and turned it around.

I really liked the part of Cappie, the captain of the football team played by Charlie Sheen. Movies of this genre usually insist that he be the worst of the worst, but in fact Cappie is a friend of Lucas who does what he can to protect him from other jocks. There's just something so heartwarming about Cappie as a sort of big brother, a decent young man who probably would have turned out a lot different if it weren't for influences like Lucas -- who helped Cappie out with schoolwork when a bad illness laid him up for two months.

Seltzer instinctively understands the nature of adolescent romance, the way everything seems so fatalistic and certain to teens. Lucas takes a shine to Maggie (Kerri Green, fresh off "The Goonies"), the cute new redhead in town. Over the summer they bond and become best friends. But once school starts, Maggie gravitates to the circle of athletes and cheerleaders. She soon develops a crush on Cappie, which he obviously reciprocates despite a long-term relationship with Alise (Thorne-Smith).

It's no surprise that Lucas is smitten by Maggie. For him, she represents not just the perfect girl but everything that is good and right about the world. When she disappoints him by rejecting his appeals for something more than friendship, it sets his whole world to spinning.

Ryder has a small but pivotal role as Rina, a slightly dorky girl who secretly adores Lucas. She does everything she can to make this clear to him, short of actually telling him so. But the fear of rejection is not limited to just boys, so Rina is just constantly there, circling in Lucas' orbit and hoping for a collision.

So all this amore flying around sets up something I don't believe I've ever seen in a film before: A love pentagon. There's a great, dialogue-free scene where everyone is singing in choir class, and the camera slowly tracks from Rina watching Lucas, who's watching Maggie, who's staring at Cappie, who returns her gaze with a smile, to Alise witnessing the blooming connection.

It would be interesting to see a movie made with all the same characters but from Rina or Alise's perspective. Think about Alise: She's been dating Cappie since the start of high school, and here comes some other girl making moony eyes at her guy, tagging along on trips to the movies, and otherwise horning in on her social life. No fool or sucker, Alise dumps Cappie before he does it to her.

Plot-wise, there really isn't much going on in "Lucas." The last 30 minutes or so is taken up with Lucas trying to get onto the football team to impress Maggie, culminating with him talking his way onto the field during a big game. Lucas breaks away from the scrimmage, waiting near the end zone for a pass, which Cappie finally provides.

In every other teen movie, Lucas would catch the ball and become the hero. Instead he bobbles and drops it. Of course he would -- this is probably the first time he's ever touched a football, let alone tried to catch a 60-yard pass. The other team picks up the fumble, and Lucas bravely tries to stop the runner, holding on like a scarecrow as he's carried downfield. In the ensuing pileup he's knocked cold. Not that it would have mattered even if he'd caught it: They were down 24-zip.

"Lucas" would stand out as an ambitious teen movie, even if no one in it had gone on to any sort of notoriety. The fact that so many did makes it a minor classic.

3.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Wall Street" (1987)

With the sequel, "Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps" arriving this week, I thought it time to take another look at the 1987 original. I hadn't seen Oliver Stone's Oscar-winning film (for Michael Douglas' bravura performance) since it came out in theaters.

Like the rest of Stone's oeuvre, it's about as subtle as a sledgehammer. But his filmmaking style is like heavy metal: When he hits the right chords, nobody plays with as much power or brash energy.

It's always fascinating what you remember from a film you saw once long ago. I had a clear memory of only two scenes: One is when slithery corporate raider Gordon Gekko (like I said, subtle) gives his "Greed is good" speech. That moment crystallized the perception of 1980s excess for decades to come.

The other involves Bud Fox (Charlie Sheen), Gekko's ambitious young protege. Bud has started to become a high roller under Gekko's tutelage of insider information and manipulating stocks, and is looking at Upper East Side apartments.

The older real estate agent is quickly rushing him through a fabulous penthouse, registers his hesitation and decides the young man is out of his league. She calls him "kid," offers to show him something more downscale. Sheen has this great reaction where he tries to hide his resentment at her condescension, then casually orders, "Offer nine-fifty." Meaning, $950,000 (or about $1.8 million in today's dollars.) One senses he's buying the place just to impress her.

Other things slipped out of memory. Chief among those is Bud's affair with Darien, an ambitious interior designer played by Daryl Hannah. Despite her face appearing on the film's poster, I had completely forgotten she was even in it.

Watching the movie again, I see why: The Bud-Darien romance is the weakest thing in the movie, a totally flat and unbelievable pairing. Darien walks out the minute it appears Bud will no longer be able to support her lavish lifestyle, and we're happy to see her go.

The encounters between Charlie Sheen and his father Martin Sheen are as strong as I remember: Despite only a handful of scenes, the elder Sheen has a convincing, easy authority as Bud's father, an airline mechanic and union leader who sees right through Gekko's manipulations. He can't believe that his son makes more money than him, but is always borrowing cash to pay for lavish suits and a Manhattan apartment.

"There's no nobility in poverty anymore, Dad. One day you'll be proud of me, you'll see," Bud insists.
"It's yourself you gotta be proud of, Huckleberry," his dad advises.

I love that little nickname at the end, a combination of affection and paternal authority. Stone wrote the screenplay with Stanley Weiser, and if some elements like the portrayal of Darien don't measure up, it's still a thoroughly engrossing story with a lot of verve, sharp observation and smart dialogue.

Example: Gekko explains that he's just spent over $1 million to buy a seat on the New York Zoo board. "That's the thing you got to understand about WASPs: They love animals. They can't stand people."

Stone's timing with the original film was excellent, arriving right around the time of the big stock crash of '87. The sequel seems fortuitous as well, with the current economic downturn caused (in large part) by banks taking on too much bad credit.

I don't think "Wall Street" was an indictment of capitalism per se, but its excesses and the way unscrupulous people could cheat the markets. We're seeing that again today, where corporate executives accept -- demand, even -- lavish bonuses even as their companies are laying people off by the thousands.

The ideal of the meritocracy seems further away than ever, as long as people like Gordon Gekko are happy to game the system for their own benefit.

3.5 stars out of four