There is a scene in which Bobby Jones, approaching the apotheosis of skill in the world of golfdom, just short of the world's championship, is practicing putting. The ball rolls to the edge of the cup and sticks there. Jones stares down at it, puzzled, and taps it with his club. Nothing. He begins to whack away at it. Nothing -- the ball is immovable. I kept waiting for him to wake up from a nightmare and thrust his face into the camera. He wakes up and thrusts his face into the camera.
It's 1920 and Jones, a college boy, is celebrating the last day before Prohibition takes effect. It's a rowdy, half-drunk bunch, and Jones has brought his shy new girl friend along. A chirpy blond announces to the others that "they're calling this the Jazz Age." That's just to make sure you know that this was called the Jazz Age, in case you missed the band playing jazz behind them.
If this had been shot in the 1950s it would have starred Jimmy Stewart as the self-doubting genius, overcoming his inner demons, and achieving glory before an untimely death. And instead of Clare Forlani, the girl who becomes the loving wife would have been June Allyson.
A couple of stereotypes are missing. There is no scurrilous villain who hates Bobby Jones for one reason or another. No enemy haunts him on his rounds. Instead, the villainy, such as it is, is spread a little thinly over a grandfather who demands Jones become a master of commerce. Grand Dad reforms and finally admits that golf is Bobby's proper calling, not business. Jones is not in search of some secret "swing" or technique. He's a wizard from boyhood on. But the inevitable Mammy figure, Clarissa, is present. This is upper-middle-class Georgia we're talking about. And there is the exhausted cliché of the loving wife who wants him to stay home, settle down, and continue his law practice. "You're married to a golf ball." Well, she doesn't say exactly that but you get the picture.
As Jones, I wish Jim Caviezel had a clearer grasp of his role. Maybe it's the script that undoes him but he projects weakness. There are plenty of scenes showing his suffering, sweating, trembling, face twisted with pain, but there is no coherent explanation for them. It's as if the writers had decided that the movie needed more suffering and thrust them rudely into the narrative.
Claire Forlani is okay with me. She's shackled by her role too, but who cares? She has sharp, sensual features and plump, asymmetrical lips. Yum. There are one or two winners in the supporting cast but more duds. The award for best performance (or, at any rate, most colorful role) goes to -- envelope, please -- Jeremy Northam (Applause!) as the cocky, confident, intense, but good-natured competitor, Walter Hagen, who shows up for one match in a tuxedo, still drunk from the night before.
Golfers and Scotsmen should love this.
It's 1920 and Jones, a college boy, is celebrating the last day before Prohibition takes effect. It's a rowdy, half-drunk bunch, and Jones has brought his shy new girl friend along. A chirpy blond announces to the others that "they're calling this the Jazz Age." That's just to make sure you know that this was called the Jazz Age, in case you missed the band playing jazz behind them.
If this had been shot in the 1950s it would have starred Jimmy Stewart as the self-doubting genius, overcoming his inner demons, and achieving glory before an untimely death. And instead of Clare Forlani, the girl who becomes the loving wife would have been June Allyson.
A couple of stereotypes are missing. There is no scurrilous villain who hates Bobby Jones for one reason or another. No enemy haunts him on his rounds. Instead, the villainy, such as it is, is spread a little thinly over a grandfather who demands Jones become a master of commerce. Grand Dad reforms and finally admits that golf is Bobby's proper calling, not business. Jones is not in search of some secret "swing" or technique. He's a wizard from boyhood on. But the inevitable Mammy figure, Clarissa, is present. This is upper-middle-class Georgia we're talking about. And there is the exhausted cliché of the loving wife who wants him to stay home, settle down, and continue his law practice. "You're married to a golf ball." Well, she doesn't say exactly that but you get the picture.
As Jones, I wish Jim Caviezel had a clearer grasp of his role. Maybe it's the script that undoes him but he projects weakness. There are plenty of scenes showing his suffering, sweating, trembling, face twisted with pain, but there is no coherent explanation for them. It's as if the writers had decided that the movie needed more suffering and thrust them rudely into the narrative.
Claire Forlani is okay with me. She's shackled by her role too, but who cares? She has sharp, sensual features and plump, asymmetrical lips. Yum. There are one or two winners in the supporting cast but more duds. The award for best performance (or, at any rate, most colorful role) goes to -- envelope, please -- Jeremy Northam (Applause!) as the cocky, confident, intense, but good-natured competitor, Walter Hagen, who shows up for one match in a tuxedo, still drunk from the night before.
Golfers and Scotsmen should love this.