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Thanks,

James

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Dear Sports Editor,

I am writing you with a complaint regarding Murray Chass’ “On Baseball” column of the 27th of February, 2007. It is exactly this kind of piece, printed in the most reputable and prestigious newspaper in the nation, that leads me to regret pursuing my major course of study — writing — and applying what I learn to my foremost passion — baseball.

So long as there are guys like Murray Chass being paid not to do their jobs, i.e. doing a simple Google search to define a stat he complains about, yet remains ignorant of, I wonder if due diligence and hard work will ever pay off. So long as irrelevant, frivolous sports fluffpieces are sent to press, rendering the paper they’re printed on utterly worthless, I wonder if there’s any hope for myself and others like me: passionate, intelligent students of letters and sport, willing apprentices without a chance to fulfill our potential due to the cranky, curmudgeonly rantings of aged men burnt out on their jobs.

I did not write this letter with the intention of setting Mr. Chass straight on his baseball lingo — to paraphrase the writer, if he wants to remain ignorant of a fairly ubiquitous ranking used often by serious fans and writers alike, and if he chooses to waste an entire column writing what is essentially the lead copy for an hour of lazy sport radio, that’s his prerogative. My aim is simply to state, as I’m sure many have before me, that when an established writer such as Mr. Chass wastes his time writing fluff, and when that same fluff is subsequently given prominent status in a newspaper held in high regard by many students just like me, it’s a slap in the face to an entire generation of writers apparently more qualified to do this job than he is.

Sincerely,

James J. Cardis
Chicago, IL

jjcardis@gmail.com

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A far longer, more eloquent response by Timothy Savage can be found right here.

Nate Silver of Baseball Prospectus responds to the Chass article.

The Fire Joe Morgan piece.

Seth Minookin’s take.

My first thought leaving The Bridge was that it is a failed documentary, stifled by its content. Taking a close look at specific suicides (24 in 2004, though I could only count, at most, between 12 and 15 actually discussed or investigated within the film’s 93 minute running time) limits the directors from grasping the true interaction between San Francisco and its Golden Gate Bridge, one that has a history spanning several decades of the 20th century. Instead, the film-makers seem preoccupied with telling the story of these specific instances, allowing friends and families of the dead — and a survivor — to have their voices heard in what is beginning to function, by virtue of the film’s inability to go anywhere beyond the recent past, as a centerpiece in what is fast becoming a referendum on what is primarily a streets & sanitation issue — that is, whether to install “safety glass” over the bridge’s rails.

Lost in this limited scope is the history of the Golden Gate Bridge itself, or the suicides that have occurred over the years since it opened. The function of the documentary isn’t necessarily to provide the answer(s), but Steele and his co-directors fail to come to even their own conclusions about what’s drawn hundreds, if not thousands, of people to jump from the bridge’s outer rails, or what is being done by some members of the community to prevent it from happening in the future. Imagine a documentary on 9/11 that chose to spend the great majority of its time interviewing the families of the survivors of that tragedy, and what little it could offer on global relations or the larger political and economic impact of such an event.

Stylistically, The Bridge views like a visual adaptation of a piece from Public Radio International’s This American Life: it tells the story primarily through field recordings, interviews, and uses longer instrumental musical interludes to signify the arrival of a new “Act.” It is only here that I would agree with my film teacher, a freelance critic for the Chicago Reader and the Sun-Times, as he calls The Bridge, “essentially, a snuff film.” Given the delivery of the film’s content, the actual footage of the suicides seem extreneous, treated as peripheral to the excessively personal stories told from the perspective of family and friends. Additionally, the visual treatment of the Golden Gate Bridge symbolizes the filmmakers’ inability to reach a middle ground — the bridge is seen often from afar, between the running legs of young children playing soccer, or behind the back of a golfer at Golden Gate Park; it is viewed close-up only when the filmmakers toy with their audience’s expectation for a jump, or when documenting the actual suicides. This goes a long way in illustrating the contextual problems Steele faced when assembling such a tenuous mix of eulogy and observation.

Grande Amber is a sweet brandy / cognac blend, graded VSOP as the brandy was cask-stored for at least four years prior to bottling — VSOP stands for, literally, Very Superior Old Pale. I can’t find a reliable rating source for brandy / cognac blends, so if you happen to read this and can point me to a good site, feel free to leave a comment. In my opinion, though, Paul Masson’s Grande Amber is one of the best brandys available in grocery stores, beating out the rest of the Paul Masson family — as well as regulars such as Christian Brothers — in taste-for-price. It mixes well with ginger ale (we typically use Vernor’s, which has a darker, rootier taste than either Schweppe’s or Canada Dry) and at 40% alcohol by volume, it won’t leave you staggering drunk after a few tumblers.

Some interesting notes about the Paul Masson brand, pulled lazily from this Wikipedia entry:

Masson is a native of France who became interested in California wine-making. Masson’s brand is most well-known as a vintner, and the brandy came along after Masson’s death and the purchase of the label by the Canandaigua Wine Company. Orson Welles did television and radio ads in the 1970′s for Masson, promising that “we will sell no wine before its time.” Grande Amber has its own web presence, separate from the wines, at Paul Masson Brandy. The original Masson Winery is maintained by the National Park Service in Saratoga, California.

Story about a group of teens who smoke dope and drink their days away, being sweet and listening to Slayer. One of the dudes kills his girlfriend, and nobody really reacts until paranoia replaces apathy. Lots of Slayer, booze, and Crispin Glover. Keanu Reeves and Dennis Hopper also have major roles, Hopper’s as a one-legged hermit hiding from his past. Tim Hunter went on to direct an episode of Twin Peaks, and it shows. Very cool movie, I highly recommend it.

Czech film about a girl who, after acquiring a pair of earrings, passes through into biological adulthood and is tormented by vampires, priests, her grandmother, and her brother — who she eventually weds. The threat of rape and execution haunt her every turn, but she persists, thanks to a pair of earrings. The soundtrack is great, and there’s a Broadcast song that’s based off one of the tracks (if that tells you anything).

I have little to justify my thoughts going into this film other than the fact it’s one of the few video games I’ve played that has truly and thoroughly creeped me out, but I expected a lot more from this film. Instead, I laughed at most of the gory scenes (especially the Pyramid Head’s grand gesture outside of the church) and the chills I felt were entirely due to the lack of heat in my apartment. Everyone who had any desire to see this has either already seen it or heard how much it sucks.

One of the later works of Italian Neo-Realism, I’m still debating what’s more depressing– all the people (including a small child) who die in the Roberto Rossellini films, or the closing sequence of The Bicycle Thief. Basic plot goes as follows: in post-war Italy, every man is on the lookout for a job. There are not as many jobs available as there are men, though, and regime change has everyone nervous. This film’s protagonist, Antonio Ricci (Lamberto Maggioran), gets a job, and he needs only one thing with which to perform it, a bicycle. His wife, Maria (Lianella Carell, the only trained, experienced actor in this film), sells their bed sheets in order to purchase the bike. During Antonio’s first day on the job, though, the bike is stolen. Father and son, Bruno (Enzo Staiola), embark on a quest to find the bicycle, and the rest must be seen to be appreciated.

Based on the same material as last year’s The Exorcism of Emily Rose, portrayed in an entirely more honest, subtle fashion that imagines the life of an epileptic devout Christian, Michaela Klingler (Sandra Huller) in her first year away at college. Like any discussion about a factual account, there’s nothing to give away — she eventually is treated for her mental ailments with exorcism, and subsequently dies of exhaustion. However, this is a film that, unlike its predecessor, refuses to preach. Circumstances are examined thoroughly, as this is more of a “year in the life of” than a spectacle, though Huller delivers a performance that is, at times, downright frightening.
There is a lot to like if you have a fetish for all things vintage — the film stock is washed out and grainy, while the soundtrack makes use of the sound of the time: krautrock, and lots of it. Krokodil, Zarathustra, Amon Duul II, Light of Darkness, and even a Deep Purple track makes its way into the film.