Bohemian Cinema By Jonathan Pacheco

“Any Given Sunday” (1999)

Directed by Oliver Stone

Satisfaction:Thrilled Tags: Defense, Sports, Oliver Stone, Action

I firmly believe that any man’s finest hour—his greatest fulfillment to all he holds dear… is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle—victorious.

Vince Lombardi

Any Given Sunday didn’t polarize the way Natural Born Killers did, and after Oliver Stone made Alexander, the public’s new punching bag, his football opus seemed to fall off the radar, which I would argue is an even worse place to be.

What sets Any Given Sunday apart is how Stone takes an in-depth look at the role that history plays in our lives, and in turn what roles we play based on our acknowledgment of history.

At the time that we join the film, the fictional Miami Sharks are a struggling team whose luck is running out as their starting quarterback, ‘Cap’ Rooney (Dennis Quaid), is pounded out of the game. After more bad luck with their second string QB, the third stringer, Willie Beamen (Jamie Foxx), comes into the game, and once he sheds some jitters, starts showing some flashes of greatness.

The film dissects the relationship between Old School and New School—History and the Future, and every character is haunted by the past and faces a future they’re unsure of. The central conflict lies between Coach Tony D’Amato (Al Pacino) and Willie; while D’Amato is adamant about sticking to what he’s known for 30 years, Beamen says that when he sees those pictures of old players and “the greats” hanging on the wall, it just makes him sad. “It’s like a room full of ghosts,” he says. The future, he explains, is all about the money.

That’s not to say that the ones playing for money can’t know their history. Luther “Shark” Lavay (Lawrence Taylor) is perhaps the most dedicated player on the team, and what keeps him going is his million-dollar bonus. But at the end of the day, he’s been there long enough to know that, after the money, after the applause, and after the dream, you need your honor in order to be proud of your life, and brash players like Willie show no honor. What is honor to these men? Is it scoring? Is it making big plays? No, it’s tearing yourself and the other team apart for your teammates to get that extra inch, because as Coach points out, it’s the guy who’s willing to die for that inch that’s going to get it. Like Lombardi said, it’s lying, exhausted, but victorious on the battlefield.

A young team doctor, Ollie Powers (played by Matthew Modine), discovers that the team’s head doctor, Harvey Mandrake (James Woods) is letting players on the field knowing that they could ruin their life or even lose it on the very next play. The fresh, naïve doc blows the whistle on Harvey who explains his motivation for not even presenting a player with the medical evidence:

                    HARVEY
With all due respect doctor, I didn't have to ask 
him because I knew the answer.  Who am I to tell 
these men they cannot live their dream?  They will 
not live with shame like you.  They are gladiators.  
They are warriors.  And long ago, they made that 
choice.  Not you, not you, not me.  And I am not 
gonna...take responsibility for standing between 
them.... didn't you ever have a dream, Ollie?

I sometimes find it difficult to argue with his logic.

The movie seems to support the notion of football as war. Taking a look at just a few of the team names, we have the Dallas Knights, New York Emperors, California Crusaders, Albuquerque Aztecs, and the Minnesota Americans. Then we have the metaphorically named Miami Sharks, a team on the teetering edge of implosion. The other teams have a sense of unity, of dignity, and yes, of honor. But where’s the honor in being a Shark? It seems obvious that before this team can conquer any of the others, they must conquer themselves.

It’s been said that football is chess with gladiators, meaning that each player factors every possible move into their decisions, making for one of the most complex strategy games. But if you allow me to run with the metaphor a little more literally, we can see how chess can define a player’s role on the field. The offensive line makes up the Pawns. Then we have the tight ends as Knights, the wide receivers as Rooks, shooting straight down the field, and perhaps the running backs as Bishops, zigzagging everywhere. Whether he’s a running back or perhaps a wide receiver, your Queen is your playmaker, and is usually a high maintenance diva, much like Julian Washington (LL Cool J). Of course, your King is your quarterback, but the problem comes when your King thinks he’s a Queen. Playing chess without a King does not work. Willie Beamen can scramble for all the yards he wants and wow the crowd with his flashy moves, but in the end, the team needs a leader, not another Queen.

                    D'AMATO
You're not some flash-in-the-pan corner or 
receiver or even Julian Washington.  You're a 
goddamn quarterback!  You know what that means?  
It's the top spot, kid.  It's the guy who takes 
the fall.  It's the guy everybody's looking at 
first, the leader of a team who will support you 
when they understand you.  Who will break 
their ribs and their noses and their necks for 
you because they believe.  'Cause you make 
them believe.  That's a quarterback.

Pacino plays D’Amato with the brutal intensity that seems to be lacking in many modern-day NFL coaches. As Roger Ebert pointed out a little while back, for the past decade, Al Pacino has found something in his acting, because he’s bringing even more life and joy to every role he takes (heck, he made his scene the only bearable one in Gigli). Any Given Sunday is no different; Pacino is riffing, and you can tell he loves it.

There are a couple of great scenes of confrontation between D’Amato and the team’s owner and General Manager, Christina Pagniacci (Cameron Diaz). The performances are strong, but what makes the scenes so interesting is how both the old coach and the young owner are using the former owner and GM, Christina’s father, as ammunition for their arguments. Coach D’Amato will say, “Your father never interfered,” but Christina’s argument to Tony is, “Dad always said, ‘No intensity, no victory.’ Where’s your intensity, Tony?” In a film where history is so pertinent, it’s fascinating to see it used on opposing sides of the same argument.

One thing that makes an Oliver Stone film an Oliver Stone Film is the editing. Similar to Natural Born Killers, Any Given Sunday uses a kinetic mix of cuts, dissolves, freeze frames, slow motion and pretty much anything else. The difference between the two films is that, even though Natural Born Killers uses a lot of style and tricks, it still uses it as it applies to the film, and compared to Natural Born Killers, Any Given Sunday uses it in moderation. While Natural Born Killers used its editing for flash, to shock and to show off, Sunday uses a tamer approach to convey what it’s like to be in the chaos of a football game. On the battlefield of football, sometimes it does feel like that ball hanging in the air is moving in slow motion. Sometimes it feels like the ground is quaking under your feet, and sometimes things are moving so fast, that the cornerback comes out of thin air to intercept the pass. The sound editing adds to the “realities” of the game; linebackers growl like lions and tires screech as an out-of-control player crashes into the Gatorade table.

Through his editing of this film, Oliver Stone has become a master at providing small scenes, or small pieces of dialogue, or even half-second shots that all seem insignificant, but speak louder about the film’s themes than some of the monologues do.

A small, unassuming scene sums up the conflict between Tony and Willie. Coach approaches Beamen on the jet as he listens to his CD player. Coach asks him what he’s listening to, to which he responds, “Rap.” Coach asks him if he listens to any jazz, then offers to make a tape for him, to which Beamen points out that he only listens to CDs. Beamen feels superior with his modern technology and his modern music, but his problem is that he doesn’t realize that the rap that he loves wouldn’t exist as it does if Coach’s jazz hadn’t come before it. Beamen needs to realize that the game he loves wouldn’t be what it is if it hadn’t been for those “old ghosts on the wall.”

As Willie enters Coach D’Amato’s house for dinner one night, Ben-Hur plays on the TV, and Willie observes, “The gladiators of their time.” This is how Willie sees everything, and he’s dead wrong. No, Willie, not “the gladiators of their time.” They are the gladiators. You are the gladiator of your time. Willie is stuck on the notion that somehow he can be disconnected from the past; but the past is not separate from Willie, because he is a derivative of it. In a world where we love to fancy ourselves as originals, it’s hard to accept that it’s all been done before, but the key is to stop denying it and start embracing it. “You’re part of something here,” Coach says. It’s intriguing how Stone can insert throwaway lines like Willie’s and have it be so important to the message of the film.

Peppered throughout the film, we see that the younger doctor takes his Hippocratic Oath seriously while the veteran is too busy flirting with cheerleaders and photographers. After getting Harvey fired, the self-righteous Ollie preps a player for the big game, and the player asks him to slip an extra shot of cortisone his way. Ollie knows this is unethical, yet finds himself conflicted. His problem is that he was so quick to condemn Harvey’s unethical ways that he didn’t even try to understand the philosophy and the history behind it. The beautiful part is how Stone delivers the storyline’s payoff: a half-second shot of Ollie flirting with cheerleaders on the sideline, symbolizing his transformation into Harvey— history repeating itself.

The importance of history is just one of the many weaving themes that Any Given Sunday has going for it. To continue to overlook this film would be an injustice, as this is a compelling and intricate piece of cinema, skillfully masterminded by Oliver Stone. Sometimes he’s on, sometimes he’s off. This time he’s on.