I wonder if Al Stump ("Stumpy" to Cobb) realized what he was doing in telling this story, how much of himself and his own dilemma he was revealing. Frustrated because Cobb has final editorial approval of the biography in progress, Stump tells us in voice-over that he decided to do the one thing that Cobb never did -- lie. He would write one bio almost solely about baseball for Cobb to read, and another secret one, hidden away on scraps, that showed the real man and would be published after Cobb's death, which is never far away.
How can Stump make the statement that Cobb never lied? He seems to lie about anything, whenever the whim moves him, including the darkest aspects of his character determinants. Exaggerration, dissembling, hiding or shading the truth, it happens all the time with Cobb. Even about baseball, which was the most important thing in his life. He's dismissive of people like Babe Ruth. When Stump forces him to say SOMEthing good about the man, Cobb allows, "He could run okay -- for a fat man."
It leaves us wondering just how much of the story we're watching is true and how much was limned and polished after the fact since, after all, what Joyce Carol Oates called "pathographies" sell much better than hagiographies. We'd rather read about a bastard than a saint. It's corrupted our scholarship, but never mind. The movie is made watchable by Jones' performance. That's about it. Lolita Davidovitch is beautiful but her part is almost unnecessary. Stumpy combines nicely a particularly kind of Jewish Angst with an equally ethnic tendency to be pushed only so far before counterattacking on his own behalf. (I don't think I minded him as much as some other commentators seem to have.)
The script doesn't give poor Jones much to do except mutate into a Teppischfresser every few minutes, screaming, shouting, laughing hysterically, shooting off pistols, and in general carrying on like some animal in a zoo. He's given scenes that are simply not true to the character as otherwise written. Visiting his daughter's house in his home town, he sits in the car and watches while she looks out the window, identifies him, and draws the curtains closed. Tears trickle down his cheeks, but why? He hasn't bothered to contact her for fifteen years. A family get-together while they sit around the dinner table and trade compliments?
The Cobb we see in the rest of the film wouldn't have given a damn about his daughter or anyone else except himself. But maybe it has something to do with facing mortality. If so, it's not made clear. Still, the most affecting scene is one in which Cobb begins to vomit blood and cough up lung tissue in a motel bathroom. "This is how it starts," he mutters to his mirror image. "This is what it looks like." He might be scared as hell but he's never sorry for anything he's done and has no capacity for self pity.
Some people may find this trait -- not sparing anyone's feelings -- admirable. I don't. Social life is a tissue of lies from beginning to end, and if you don't make some minimal effort to play by this simple and somewhat silly rule of the game -- well, others are liable to treat you as if you had slid into second base wearing shoes with razor-sharp cleats. Al grows to like this old curmudgeon, but let's not forget that Cobb was Al's meal ticket.
How can Stump make the statement that Cobb never lied? He seems to lie about anything, whenever the whim moves him, including the darkest aspects of his character determinants. Exaggerration, dissembling, hiding or shading the truth, it happens all the time with Cobb. Even about baseball, which was the most important thing in his life. He's dismissive of people like Babe Ruth. When Stump forces him to say SOMEthing good about the man, Cobb allows, "He could run okay -- for a fat man."
It leaves us wondering just how much of the story we're watching is true and how much was limned and polished after the fact since, after all, what Joyce Carol Oates called "pathographies" sell much better than hagiographies. We'd rather read about a bastard than a saint. It's corrupted our scholarship, but never mind. The movie is made watchable by Jones' performance. That's about it. Lolita Davidovitch is beautiful but her part is almost unnecessary. Stumpy combines nicely a particularly kind of Jewish Angst with an equally ethnic tendency to be pushed only so far before counterattacking on his own behalf. (I don't think I minded him as much as some other commentators seem to have.)
The script doesn't give poor Jones much to do except mutate into a Teppischfresser every few minutes, screaming, shouting, laughing hysterically, shooting off pistols, and in general carrying on like some animal in a zoo. He's given scenes that are simply not true to the character as otherwise written. Visiting his daughter's house in his home town, he sits in the car and watches while she looks out the window, identifies him, and draws the curtains closed. Tears trickle down his cheeks, but why? He hasn't bothered to contact her for fifteen years. A family get-together while they sit around the dinner table and trade compliments?
The Cobb we see in the rest of the film wouldn't have given a damn about his daughter or anyone else except himself. But maybe it has something to do with facing mortality. If so, it's not made clear. Still, the most affecting scene is one in which Cobb begins to vomit blood and cough up lung tissue in a motel bathroom. "This is how it starts," he mutters to his mirror image. "This is what it looks like." He might be scared as hell but he's never sorry for anything he's done and has no capacity for self pity.
Some people may find this trait -- not sparing anyone's feelings -- admirable. I don't. Social life is a tissue of lies from beginning to end, and if you don't make some minimal effort to play by this simple and somewhat silly rule of the game -- well, others are liable to treat you as if you had slid into second base wearing shoes with razor-sharp cleats. Al grows to like this old curmudgeon, but let's not forget that Cobb was Al's meal ticket.