Well, we’re through the looking glass now, folks. After 86 years of trying, the Red Sox have won the Series! The sweep was a bit anti-climactic after the surprising Yankee-beating last week, but, still, an awesome feat nonetheless. Just think of all those terminally depressed Sox fans out there, who now have to find a new locus for their discontent. (By the way, Dubya, Massachusetts is coming for you next.)
Tag: Boston
Under a Blood Red Sky.
Once in a blue moon? Not even. As it turns out, Game 4 of the World Series will be played under a lunar eclipse. I think the Series will go more than four, but if it doesn’t…
Who’s Your Daddy?
So, how you like them apples? Against all odds, the Sox reverse the Curse and finally defeat the detestable Yanks 10-3. They shouldn’t throw up the “Mission Accomplished” banner prior to the Series, but still, this must bode well for Johnny Kerry…
Red Sox Reprieve?
“[I]t would be impossible to overstate the impact on any team of losing back-to-back extra-inning games after saves were blown in regulation time. To do it twice with the pennant in your hands is unprecedented.” 1918? Try 10/18. I still think the Sox are dead in the water after their lousy 0-3 start in the ALCS, but at least the past two games have made it interesting. Update: Verrrry interesting…I’ve got members of the BoSox Nation flying in from the West Coast just for tonight’s Game 7. One way or another, it should be a hot time in the old town tonight.
Scorn of the Sox.
“Dear Roger Clemens: Let me offer my hearty congratulations on starting the All-Star Game. Wow, that is really terrific. I’d like to note, however, that I hate you. Also: You are fat. They say you’ve got this hard-core training regimen, with calisthenics and whatnot. I’m not seeing it. You’re wicked fat.” Slate‘s Seth Stevenson exercises (and exorcises) his contempt for the Rocket.
Cry Me a River.
So I caught Mystic River the other night and, with its crisp, no-nonsense direction and a glut of extraordinary performances (I liked everyone but Laura Linney, who — like Jeremy Davies — always comes across as overly mannered to me), it pretty much has to be considered an Oscar contender. Sean Penn, Kevin Bacon, and especially Tim Robbins all disappear into their meaty roles, while a mousy Marcia Gay Harden and a large-and-in-charge Lawrence Fishburne (Morpheus, dude, lay off the bacon) provide excellent supporting work. Sure, there are elements of the movie that bugged me – For one, I thought the conceit with Kevin Bacon’s silent wife was just plain goofy. (Can you hear me now? Good!) For another, the pieces of the murder mystery are all in place before the wheel of Fate grinds to its inexorable conclusion, so there’s a good ten-twenty minutes there where you’re just waiting for the characters to do what it is they have to do.
All in all, though, I thought Mystic River was a film well-worth seeing, one with well-developed, multifaceted characters and a strong, rooted sense of place. (Naturally, I was reminded of the months I spent in Somerville.) It seems people are running hot and cold on the fifteen minute coda at the end of the film — Linney’s speech aside, I actually liked it, and thought Harden’s last few moments (and the parade echoing the first scene of the film) were kinda chilling. As Sean, Jimmy, and Dave all note, one could easily imagine a Twilight Zone episode where the lives of the three main characters were switched, depending on which of them was forced to become “the boy who escaped from wolves.” To paraphrase the son of an altogether different neighborhood, sometimes the world is a monster, bad to swallow you whole.
Hell Freezes Over,
pigs are flying, and the Big Dig in Boston is almost done. Hope it was worth it.