In Carson Lund鈥檚 two teams 鈥� the Riverdogs and Adler鈥檚 Paint 鈥� gather on a neighborhood field for a baseball game. The leaves are already starting to turn 鈥� 鈥淚t鈥檚 getting late early,鈥� as Yogi Berra said 鈥� and this is to be the final game for their adult rec league. The field is to be demolished.
No one would confuse them for all-stars. A suicide squeeze unfolds in creaky slow-motion. The rotund left fielder mutters 鈥淢other McCree鈥� under his breath when the ball is hit in the gap. But, regardless of skill level, they all care sincerely about the game.
鈥淓别辫丑耻蝉,鈥� as leisurely as a late-August double header, simply unfolds along with their game. Except to chase a foul ball or two, the movie stays within the lines of Soldier Field, the nondescript Massachusetts baseball field they鈥檙e playing on sometime in the 1990s. It spans nine innings, with dugout chatter and fading light. In this slow-pitch gem of a baseball movie 鈥� a middle-aged 鈥淪andlot鈥� 鈥� time is slipping away, but they鈥檙e going down swinging.
Money, analytics and whatever鈥檚 on ESPN can sometimes cloud what sports is to most people: A refuge. 鈥淓别辫丑耻蝉,鈥� in that way, is a change-up of a baseball movie, an elegiac ode to the humbler weekend warriors who are driven by nothing but genuine affection for the game. Richly detailed and mordantly deadpan, 鈥淓ephus" adopts their pace of play, soaking up all the sesame-seed flavor that goes along with it.
The title comes from an unnaturally slow pitch not slung but lobbed toward home. When I was a kid pitching, I liked to uncork one from time to time, much to my coach鈥檚 dismay. The metaphor isn鈥檛 hard to grasp. One player describes it as a pitch you can get bored watching, even making you lose track of time.
Much of the same applies to 鈥淓别辫丑耻蝉,鈥� which drifts player to player, play to play, less as an ensemble piece than like a roving spectator. The guys, themselves, have no more than a handful of fans, including the diehard scorekeeper Fanny (Cliff Blake). , the great documentarian whose films chronicle nothing so much as institutions kept alive over time, is the voice of the announcer.
I earlier called Lund鈥檚 film an ode, but it鈥檚 not a sentimental movie. Time鈥檚 passage, which no ballgame or perfectly thrown eephus can halt, grows increasingly disquieting as the afternoon light gives way to nightfall. That, to finish the game, they play into near-total darkness, with only headlights to see the ball, is a sign of desperation as much as it is commitment. After all, one guy in the dugout is listening to a radio broadcast of a ballgame, from 1972.
What鈥檚 being lost? It鈥檚 not a strip mall the field is to be turned into but something harder to quibble with: a school. They could drive half an hour to another field, but that鈥檚 said to be half Little League, half farmer鈥檚 market. They aren鈥檛 a collection of pals, either. They don鈥檛 hang out away from the diamond. Things they don鈥檛 talk about: work, families, politics. Things they do: eyecare for the ump.
In the annals of baseball movies, 鈥淓ephus鈥� doesn鈥檛 belong in the Hall of Fame with 鈥淏ull Durham鈥� or 鈥淎 League of Their Own.鈥� The closest it gets to the big leagues is an appearance by Bill 鈥淪paceman鈥� Lee, the 1970s southpaw and eephus adherent.
But 鈥淓ephus鈥� is just as deserving of a place in that hardball pantheon, only in some minor ball realm, well below single A. Here, they don't throw 鈥渉igh cheese鈥� but such meatballs that, as one player riffs, you could call it pasta primavera. To call this a field of dreams would be pushing it. But it's a lovely way to pass some time.
鈥淓别辫丑耻蝉,鈥� a Music Box release is not rated by the Motion Picture Association but contains coarse language. Running time: 98 minutes. Three stars out of four.
Jake Coyle, The Associated Press
