Archive for June 8th, 2016


 © 2016 by James Clark

 A college baseball player filled to the brim with dreams and drives about making it to the Big Leagues, creates a small riot at a club by attacking the bartender for less than Big League cocktail skills. When he and his teammates are finally chased out to the parking lot, part of the venue’s name shows on the exterior—SOUND. (The full name is the unimaginative, “Sound Machine.”) The one with the noticeably bad temper calls himself Raw Dog, seemingly dovetailing with his Detroit (Murder City, circa 1980) home, perhaps (he might hope) giving him a better chance to stomp to fame and fortune in a very competitive endeavor. The ironic little demurral on the wall brings about a circus-catch robbery of a home run so many viewers would take for granted here.

This film comes to us (after a long incubation) fully aware of general cultural and film-genre biases toward the processes of so-called coming-of-age, to the effect that late-adolescent self-indulgence is a basically life-affirming event. The boys milling about on that asphalt watching Raw Dog scream and jump up and down assertively, have begun their last weekend before classes with a view to drinking, smoking and fucking everything in sight. Most of them seem on the surface to be—in the vernacular of an even earlier era— “disturbingly healthy” specimens on the way to domestic efficacy, under the aegis of the American Dream. Whatever instability they might evince has been universally accorded that spiritedness that makes the world go round. (Still to come are the co-eds, their perhaps inordinate preoccupation with mixing adventure and domestic bliss accorded the same uncritical sunniness from that vast constituency of those unconvinced that there is anything more to life than the accolade-strewn domestic tattoo they have immersed themselves in.) (more…)

Read Full Post »