And now for part two of my review on This Sporting Life. Because you play sports like I do, I realize your time is short and you do not favor a Freudian analysis of the film’s finer points. And really, don’t all rush to read this; the first part of my review was so extensively read that the the servers might shut down again.
Here is a short Monkeywrench review:
1) It’s about sports. The book, which won the MacMillan Prize for literature in 1961, was written by a former rugby player from Northern England who attended Art School.
The sports treatment in this film is far superior to the work of say, Peter Berg (a Macalester classmate of mine and yes I am jealous) in Friday Night Lights or even the older, more classic North Dallas Forty.
I am talking smashed bodies, broken bones and fields mired in blood and mud; the life people lived before television and astroturf.
2) It’s about women. The most riveting part of the flim is Richard Harris’ inability to make Rachel Roberts feel something for him. Had he not thrown a few lefts, he might have been Mr. Right.
I am not trying to be witty here. This is a tough movie. The woman wounds the man with her words and the man slaps her. It’s all sinister.
3) It has not one, but two classic Bentleys, and, I believe a convertible Alvis. The contrast of lily white cars against soot gray skies must symoblize something. It could be that the cars are actually better than people. I know this has been my experience. At least with my first Alfa named Gina.
4) It proves apes like you and I can have feelings. OK, I won’t pull you into this. As for myself however, my woman thinks me an oaf who cares more about sports than houses. I tried to explain that I also love women’s sports. Not working. It hurts.
5) I forget the fifth reason for the moment. Like I said, I love sports. In fact, yesterday I hit my head so hard on the ground that I am starting to loo
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