(First Editor’s Note: If you’re new here, check out the Film Lit Pitch Introduction and the Film Lit Pitch Coming Attractions.)
(Second Editor’s Note: Film expert Justin Brown told me a throughline between Fargo and The Bad News Bears: Fargo impresario Ethan Coen considers The Bad News Bears one of his top-5 all-time movies. I found that information—and the timing of my learning of it—to be cool on multiple levels. In itself, it’s also quite the endorsement for the film you’re about to read about.)
“You know, I think we’re doing a really fine thing.”
I adore The Bad News Bears, and have since I first saw it as a kid. For years of this adoration, I vastly under-appreciated this film.
To be fair, I don’t think I’m alone. My (perhaps overly self-apologist) estimation is that if asked, most of this film’s fans would describe it as either a sports movie or a comedy. And, of course, The Bad News Bears certainly works on both those levels.
The baseball scenes are believable to anyone who’s watched a Little League game—sometimes too believable. Without getting into specifics, I can tell you that bad plays on real-life fields often inspire allusions to this film. (Not surprisingly, often these allusions are as casual as, “It’s like The Bad News Bears out there.”) And I can tell you that if you spend enough time on a Little League field, you will see plays similar to and worse than (!) the Bears’ plays, even if they do not come as consecutively as the Bears’ seem to.
The baseball scenes also feature tactics familiar to fans of Major League Baseball. We see the Yankees break “The Code” and bunt when they lead (at least) 11-0 in the first inning. The Yankees issue a bases-loaded intentional walk to the Barry Bonds-like Kelly Leak. And, in an eerily prescient moment, the Bears employ “The Peransky Shift,” a radical defensive alignment that seems so analytics-inspired that it would be outlawed in the Major Leagues in 2023.
(Note: as a volunteer third base coach, I’m willing to forgive the glaring absence of any third base coaches on any team.)
It’s also a very funny film when it wants to be. Sure, the Bears’ incompetence provides ample slapstick humor. And Walter Mathau is at his comic best, putting on full display his ability to be deadpan and charismatic at the same time.
But this film’s excellence centers on a simple truth: it’s a trap.
“The boys are the ones who want it this way.”
I mean, one dvd cover describes it as a “classic comedy about growing up.” And check out this silly caricature-filled poster. The filmmakers (or, at least, those marketing the film) don’t want you to know how good it is, how painful and enduring and important some of its messages and images are.
As veterans of my Film Lit course can confirm, when the class finishes a film, I’ll often have them debrief their initial thoughts and reactions with a partner or two, and then ask them a more pointed question that they can discuss first with their partners, and that we can then discuss as a group. In this case, the pointed question would sound something like the following: “The last shot defines the film. What do we make of the fact that the film ends with a shot featuring the American flag?”
As is the case for all satire, it’s precisely because the film is so coy about its agenda initially that its critique is so effective. As the film progresses, though, we see a withering indictment of American culture generally, and youth sports in America specifically.
The adults in the league establishment are despicable, all the more so because they smugly believe they prioritize the children’s best interests. Bob Whitewood, for all his stated altruism, has at least one eye on his political career; his attempt to disband the team after the first embarrassing loss suggests that optics have been his driving motivation the whole time. Cleveland displays some thinly veiled classism, and, as evidenced by her basking at the pre-season party, cares a bit too much about her and the league’s reputations.
And then there’s Roy Turner, whom we first see as a hard-working father leading Joey in a private workout. Soon enough we see that his competitive drive has been pathologically toxic. Buttermaker knows immediately that Turner’s argument to continue the opening game, “I’m just thinking of your boys out there,” is in bad faith. His pre-championship-game speech to his own team is chilling: “If you guys lose this game, each and every one of you, you’re gonna have to live with it.” His public physical abuse of his own son, as difficult as it is to watch, is not surprising. (Thank goodness for all involved, including the audience, that Mrs. Turner steps in to show unconditional compassion for her son.)
“Now get back in the stands before I shave off half your mustache and shove it up your left nostril.”
It’s this backdrop of delusion and warped values that helps make Buttermaker’s arc so compelling. He isn’t wrong when he calls himself a “bum,” and his tirade in response to Amanda’s request to spend more time with him suggests that he can be a jackass independent of anything baseball-related. (I mean, it takes a lot to yell at an eleven-year-old, “Can’t you get it through your head that I don’t want your company?”) Yet it’s also clear the culture gets to him. And, to be fair, the first transition—from embarrassing drunk to engaged and enthusiastic tactician—is positive. His next turn, though, from leader to demagogue, is as convincing as it is hard to watch. So his mid-championship speech to the Bears is arresting. The fear and shame in the Bears’ eyes are real, and the realization of what he has become (one that induces tears in his eyes) is so devastating all he can do to close the speech is mutter weakly, “Just get out there now and do the best you can.”
Every time I watch this film, there are so many instances, especially in the championship, that I find myself saying to the adults—especially the coaches—“Please stop. Please.” So, I have to say that I’m relieved that Buttermaker finally does stop. His management for the rest of the game, as tactically unwise as it is, redeems him and lets us breathe at least a little bit easier.
The operatic score, which starts innocently enough as an accompaniment to the on-field blunders, eventually helps accentuate the chasm between what the adults think they are doing and what they are actually doing. The adults seem to think the outcomes of these games are matters of life and death; they think they are in some epic real-life opera. They are very, very wrong.
This film deals with some serious issues. Racism. Sexism. Anti-Semitism. Classism. Broken families. Child abuse. A teacher could have some difficult and important class discussions about this film.
All Film Lit films should entertain you and make you think. This one tricks you into thinking perhaps a bit more than you wanted to, and forces you to ask and answer tough questions about the place you live and—for literally anyone who’s been involved in youth sports—who you are.
“Listen, Lupus, you didn’t come into this life just to sit around on a dugout bench, did ya? Then get your ass out there and do the best you can.”
See you next time, when I pitch A Star is Born. (Coming Febuary 22nd!)