3.5 stars. Rated PG, for no particular reason
By Derrick Bang
Underdog sports stories are
irresistible. Fish-out-of-water stories are irresistible.
You’d therefore think that a film
combining both elements would be can’t-miss.
You’d think.
In fairness, Million Dollar Arm has a lot going for it, starting with a
fact-based premise that is buoyed further by several thoroughly charming
performances. Unfortunately, these virtues are offset by director Craig
Gillespie’s protracted approach — his film is both too slow and, at slightly
more than two hours, too long — and a casting decision that doesn’t work as
everybody undoubtedly hoped.
Thomas McCarthy’s screenplay
takes a gentle, light-comedy approach to real-world sports agent J.B. Bernstein’s
gimmick-laden visit to India in 2007, when he staged a reality show-type
competition in order to uncover untapped baseball talent. J.B. felt, not
unreasonably, that in a nation obsessed with cricket, surely a few “bowlers” could be groomed into
Major League pitchers.
As shaped by McCarthy, J.B. (Jon
Hamm) and his partner and best friend Aash (Aasif Mandvi) are treading dire
financial waters. The dream of fronting their own agency is about to go under
for the third and final time, salvation resting entirely on a potential deal
with an extravagantly fickle football star (Rey Maualuga).
Things don’t work out, leaving
J.B. to clutch at the flimsiest of straws, after some late-night TV flipping
between a cricket match and Susan Boyle’s stunning performance of “I Dreamed a
Dream” on Britain’s Got Talent (an
event that took place in April 2009, but hey, who pays attention to such niggly
little details?).
J.B. hatches an improbable
scheme, manages to secure financial backing from a taciturn investor named Mr.
Chang (Tzi Ma), and soon finds himself in India.
Gillespie is on firm ground
during this sequence, evoking portraits of various Indian locales that are by
turns exotic and amusing. J.B. liaises with a “fixer” (Darshan Jariwala) and
quickly picks up a protégé of sorts: Amit (rising Indian film star Pitobash, in
a thoroughly delightful American debut), an eager-beaver volunteer, gopher,
translator, right-hand man and die-hard baseball fan.
They’re also joined by Ray
Poitevint (Alan Arkin), a cantankerous retired baseball scout who doesn’t need
to watch for potential; he can hear
the sound of a proper fastball. (Didn’t Clint Eastwood’s Gus Lobel rely on that
skill, in 2012’s Trouble with the Curve?
And does Arkin ever play anything but cantankerous?)
Mild sport is made of J.B.’s
hapless disorientation in these foreign locales: reactions he shares via Skype
sessions with Brenda (Lake Bell), the medical student/tenant occupying the
secondary suite behind the lavish home purchased when his previous lifestyle
could afford such largess. During these moments, J.B. almost becomes a human
being, a distinction that will become increasingly important — and irritating —
as the film proceeds.
The talent search itself is
pitched at just the right tone, evoking similar montage sequences from films as
varied as All That Jazz and The Commitments. We know when things get
serious, though, because Gillespie and McCarthy soon focus on Rinku Singh
(Suraj Sharma) and Dinesh Patel (Madhur Mittal), two young men who come from
the same small rural village.
Ironically, neither thinks much
of cricket; they just happen to be physically adept. When the dust has settled
from the flamboyant circus orchestrated for this competition’s final round,
Rinku and Dinesh find themselves on a plane bound for Los Angeles.
And, just as J.B. was drolly out
of his element in India, Rinku and Dinesh haven’t the slightest idea what to
make of Southern California. Everything is a wide-eyed, jaw-dropping wonder to
these country boys: automatic elevators, water fountains and pizza, not to
mention the very notion of a gorgeous young woman — that would be Brenda —
mincing about in body-hugging jogging and exercise clothing.
Amit, brought along to assist
with the culture shock, isn’t much help; he’s more awe-struck than the boys
are. Perhaps unwisely, J.B. also gives Amit a camcorder and tells him to
archive Rinku and Dinesh’s every move, for use in a possible future
documentary: an assignment Amit takes much too seriously.
Whereupon J.B., his eye on another
financially lucrative prize, simply drops them off each day with pitching
guru/life coach Tom House (Bill Paxton), expecting the subsequent miracle to
take care of itself.
And that, sadly, is this film’s major problem.
Okay, yes; J.B. is supposed to be
a jerk, at least initially. The obvious plot goal is the transition: when J.B.
stops being such a shallow, deal-obsessed cad, and — motivated by a genuine
sense of responsibility to these young men, something he promised to their
families, back in India — becomes a compassionate person who thinks beyond his
own desires.
Goodness knows he gets plenty of
encouragement, some of it rather bluntly stated, to stop being such an
contemptible douchebag: from Brenda, from House, and even from Aash. On top of
which, only a thorough creep would treat these three Indian visitors with such
disrespect.
But that’s the problem. J.B.’s
behavior goes from awful to worse, and Hamm is simply too good at being bad.
He’s inherently loathsome, his smug, smarmy bearing overshadowing just about
every attempt to be graceful, even during J.B.’s humbler moments. I don’t know
whether to blame thespic limitations, or the impact of too many years as Mad Men’s despicable Don Draper, but —
as this film’s Brenda would say — the patient is terminal, and should be taken
off life-support.
Our unease over J.B.’s callous
insensitivity, particularly in a film that’s otherwise graced with a benevolent
and softly humorous tone, builds to a climax during an ill-advised temper
tantrum: an unforgivable act that sabotages the film. Doesn’t matter what
happens next; the obligatory happy-dappy finale feels false, because we no
longer give a damn about J.B. He’s simply an ass, and he doesn’t deserve any
sort of redemption.
That’s a shame, since everybody
else is so well cast, and delivers such engaging performances. Sure, we’ve seen
Arkin do his grumpy old man shtick many times before, but he remains no less
delightful. Mandvi is an amusingly harried family man, the sort of boon
companion J.B. hardly deserves; Allyn Rachel makes the most of her small role
as Theresa, their Gal Friday.
Paxton is nicely understated as
the Obi-Wan Kenobi of coaches, a performance he modulates to perfection,
stopping just short of caricature.
Bell is marvelous as the feisty,
perceptive and intelligent Brenda; indeed, Bell is a true joy in a tidily
written role that makes this woman smart and utterly immune to J.B.’s lesser
qualities (which he, of course, believes are virtues). These days, such a
female character is a revelation, and Bell makes the most of the opportunity.
But the film belongs to Sharma,
Mittal and Pitobash, all of whom are both endearing and quite persuasively
cast. Sharma will be recognized as the young protagonist in Ang Lee’s
adaptation of Life of Pi; that was
this young actor’s film debut, and his sophomore outing here is just as
accomplished. Much can be read in Rinku’s hopeful gaze.
Mittal has a bit more work behind
him, notably as Dev Patel’s older brother, in Slumdog Millionaire. Here, he makes Dinesh a classic tragic figure:
a haunted young man barely able to endure the weight of family expectation, his
often haunted gaze just this side of panic, should he let people down. The
notion that such a fine young man would worry about disappointing a thorough
heel like J.B. is almost more than we can stand.
Pitobash is a hoot and a half.
He’s a nimble physical actor, getting considerable mileage from stance and
gesture; watch for his grand moment, when Amit is called upon to give Rinku and
Dinesh a pep talk.
Hamm may be this film’s star, but
he’s completely overshadowed by these three; needless to say, that upsets the
story’s balance. Gillespie errs further with his tin-eared use of music, most particularly
the aggressively unpleasant numbers that utterly destroy most of the sequences
in India. I note the entire score comes from celebrated Indian composer A. R.
Rahman, who won a well-deserved Oscar for his contributions to Slumdog Millionaire. I wish he had
employed more of that score’s effervescent charm here.
Just before the final credits, we
get some captivating footage of the actual Singh and Patel, as they’re
triumphantly signed by the Pittsburgh Pirates: a feel-good moment with which
Gillespie wisely concludes his film. Wisely, because the moment didn’t last;
Patel had a very short career before being released in December 2010, while the
somewhat more successful Singh — who became the first Indian to pitch in a
professional U.S. baseball game, in July 2009 — missed the entire 2013 season
due to injuries, his future career now in doubt.
Not exactly the stuff of happy
endings, just as I suspect that this little film — its frequent charms
notwithstanding — will get stomped into oblivion by Godzilla.
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