Any Given Sunday Review
by James Sanford (jamessanford AT earthlink DOT net)December 24th, 1999
In the world of director Oliver Stone, a slap sounds like a crack of thunder and a tackle like a building being imploded. High-decibel jams by DMX, Moby and Kid Rock underscore almost everything. The camera constantly jerks and weaves, frantically trying to determine where the action is.
The screen is cluttered with overlapping images and double exposures. And, to be heard at all, dialogue must be shouted. That's what you get -- for a full three hours -- in "Any Given Sunday," Stone's tribute to the seamy institution we call professional football. It's a movie designed to bruise the eyes and ears, which it does, thanks to Stone's sheer force of will and a team of editors that turn even the most mundane moments into sonic and visual cacophony. When coach Tony D'Amato (Al Pacino, making up for his restrained performance in "The Insider" by bellowing and howling at every opportunity) tries to reason with headstrong young quarterback Willie Beaman (Jamie Foxx), the conversation is intercut with shots of storm clouds gathering, bits of grainy black-and-white football films and clips of Charlton Heston in "Ben Hur."
Take away the bravado and flashiness, however, and "Sunday" reveals itself as a surprisingly conventional drama plagued with many of the same problems that have burdened Stone's other work.
Again, he teaches us there are three kinds of women: the heartless, scheming harpy, a la Daryl Hannah in "Wall Street" (represented here by Cameron Diaz as Miami Sharks owner Christina Pagniacci); the worn-out nag, along the lines of Sissy Spacek in "JFK" (in this case, it's Ann-Margret as Christina's bitter, cocktail-swilling mom); and the eager prostitute/groupie who lurks on the sidelines, waiting to ambush her man when his defenses are down (too many examples to note). The only exception in the film is a cipher named Vanessa (Lela Rochon), who steadfastly stands by Beaman until he becomes a star, then jumps off the gravy train and disappears from the story.
The men here don't fare much better, since Stone and co-author John Logan have written them as concepts rather than as characters. D'Amato is the die-hard veteran struggling to hold on to his place in a changing world and to secure a place for his buddy Jack "Cap" Rooney (Dennis Quaid), an aging quarterback whose body and spirit are rapidly deteriorating. Beaman starts off as a bright-eyed kid from a religious home, then turns almost immediately into a fatuous egotist who gives self-adoring interviews and records an awful rap CD.
Lightening up the high-pressure atmosphere a bit are John C. McGinley as a desperate-to-be-hip sportscaster and James Woods as Harvey, a devious team orthopedist who's all too happy to pump up the players with painkillers in the name of the game. "What the hell's next? " Harvey groans, as he adds up the various injuries incurred by the Sharks during one tumultuous game. "Stigmata?"
The conflicts and crises that erupt when these people are thrown together against a background of politics, lucrative endorsement deals, free drugs and expensive call girls are mostly what you'd expect, and although Stone and Logan's melodrama reeks with in-your-face style (D'Amato and Christina are always telling people to "pump up the volume," and Stone cheerfully complies), it's definitely on the shallow side. When pressed to say what has changed football from an all-American game into the sleazy business it is today, Stone feebly points a finger at television as the culprit, then wriggles away from the question. His explanation for Christina's strident show-me-the-money attitude is even lamer: It turns out her late daddy always wanted a son, so she's done her best to deny her femininity.
Despite such lazy scripting and two-dimensional characters, "Sunday" is often engrossing nonetheless, simply because Stone is too much of a showman to put on a second-rate circus. Much of the action on the field is spectacularly staged and brilliantly cut together, and the volatile match-up of Diaz and Pacino makes the fights between Christina and D'Amato exciting to follow.
The one thing all the flamboyance can't cover up is the story's complete lack of any emotional impact whatsoever. In Stone's domain, anything that's not loud, bright, fast or flashy never gets into the game. This is an arena for gladiators, and mere human beings belong on the bench. James Sanford
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