Former player-turned-manager Joe Torre (Paul Sorvino) faces the challenge of his career when he’s hired as the new manager of the New York Yankees. Working with a team full of tired veterans and troubled rookies and having to deal with opinionated owner George Steinbrenner (Kenneth Welsh), Torre leads the team to the World Series. Meanwhile, Joe’s brother, Frank Torre (Robert Loggia), battles for his life when it’s determined that he needs a heart transplant. Soon, the team is playing for Joe and winning for Frank.
I guess this was made for HBO, after the Yankees beat the Atlanta Braves in the 1996 World Series. I was just a kid in 1996 and I certainly wasn’t a baseball fan at the time so I didn’t watch that World Series when it was played. Luckily, so much footage from the series is included in Curveballs Along The Way that I now feel like I did watch the entire thing. Curveballs Along The Way is a good film for baseball fans. Paul Sorvino comes across as being the ideal manager. He’s who you want in your team’s dugout, going with his gut and deciding whether to replace the pitcher or keep him in all the way through the final inning. The main appeal of the film, though, is all the real game footage that is used. Of course, you can see most of that footage on YouTube now so I guess there’s really no point to watching the movie unless you’re a big fan of Paul Sorvino or Robert Loggia.
Curveballs Along The Way is a baseball movie that celebrates the game and that people that play it and, most importantly, it was better than Here Come The Tigers. I liked it.
All I did was ask Tubi for a good baseball movie and it recommended this.
Here Come The Tigers is about Eddie Burke (Richard Lincoln), a small-town cop who reluctantly agrees to coach a Little League team that no one expects to do well. Eddie takes the Tigers to the championship, despite the fact that all the kids are weirdos who don’t look like they’ve ever held a bat before. One kid suffers from terrible flatulence. One kid is always picking his nose. Another kid is all about Star Wars, which makes him the least offensive of them all. There’s a lot of humor but none of it is funny. There’s a lot of characters but none of them stand out. I didn’t know anyone’s name until they were all introduced before the championship game.
Here Come The Tigers was obviously inspired by The Bad News Bears. By inspired, I mean that it basically is The Bad News Bears, just without the charm or the important message about adults need to back off and just let their little leaguers enjoy the game. I can also tell that this was meant to be a family film but it seems like any parents who watched it would probably become nostalgic for a time before they had children. The kids in this movie are so disgusting that they’re sometimes impossible to watch.
The kids who made up the bad news Bears won you over. The Tigers just make you want to leave the ballpark.
I was recently trying to remember if I had ever seen a truly great (as opposed to just good) film about a comedian. The closest I could come up with was the original Fame but, while that film does feature Barry Miller as an aspiring comedian, he’s only a part of the ensemble. He’s not the sole focus of the film and his most memorable moment is when he get taunted by Richard Belzer and then bombs on stage.
Why do movies about comedians often seem to fail? Some of that is because they star people who aren’t necessarily believable as comedians (The Comedian) and they try to cover up that fact by including way too many shots of people laughing uproariously in response (Man of the Year, the HBO television series I’m Dying Up Here). Another major problem is that comedians themselves tend to be a bit difficult to take when they’re not on stage. Having to spend 90 to 120 minutes hanging out with a group of emotionally closed-off people who won’t stop trying to be funny can be exhausting. It’s really not as surprise that many movies (Lenny, Funny People, Joker) about comedians tend to portray them as being seriously damaged people. Punchlineis an interesting example of a film that managed to feature not only a miscast and not particularly funny star (Sally Field, in this case) but also a group of comedians (led by Tom Hanks) who come across as being a real chore to hang out with.
All of that brings us to 2018’s A Futile And Stupid Gesture, an exhausting biopic about National Lampoon-founder Doug Kenney. The film establishes itself from the start by featuring a gray-haired Martin Mull as who Doug Kenney would have grown up to be if he hadn’t died mysteriously at the age of 33. While Mull narrates, Will Forte (who was so brilliant in Nebraska) plays the youngish Kenney. Meanwhile, a host of 21st century comedy all-stars play the comedy all-stars of the 1970s, with only Joel McHale’s Chevy Chase and Nelson Franklin’s PJ O’Rourke making much of an impressions. Our narrator mentions that most of the actors don’t look like the characters that they’re playing because this is the type of movie where the fourth wall is repeatedly broken. A lot of people credit Adam McKay with making it trendy to break the fourth wall. In reality, it was Michael Winterbottom with 24-Hour Party People. Either way, it’s one of those things that’s been done so many times that it no longer feels the least bit subversive. A Futile and Stupid Gesture is so extremely stylized (here comes another fantasy sequence!) that it actually feels more desperate than clever.
A Futile and Stupid Gesture is a tiring film, largely because everyone in the movie is such a quip machine that you get sick of listening to them after the first few minutes. The film makes the argument that Kenney’s refusal to stop making jokes was because of the trauma of losing his brother when he was younger but that still doesn’t make the film’s version of Kenney any less exhausting as a character. To be honest, though, just about every character in the film is exhausting. So many famous lines are uttered that I was ready to throw a shoe at the television by the time Michael O’Donoghue (Thomas Lennon) said, “I don’t write for felt.” Between this film and Saturday Night, I’ll be very happy to never see another movie featuring someone playing Michael O’Donoghue.
It’s a shame it’s not a better film because one does get the feeling that the film was coming from a place of love. Director David Wain has directed some funny movies and he was one of the people behind Children’s Hospital, one of my favorite shows. I wanted to like this film and I feel a little bit guilty that I didn’t. But, in the end, it’s hard not to feel that maybe a better tribute to Doug Kenney would have been to have filmed Bored of the Rings.
Death Race (2008) is the kind of movie that feels like it was engineered in a lab specifically to test how much nonsense an audience will tolerate as long as things explode every ten minutes. Directed by Paul W.S. Anderson, a filmmaker whose entire career seems built on the philosophy of “style over literally anything else,” the film doesn’t so much tell a story as it barrels through one at full speed, flipping off logic, subtlety, and occasionally even coherence along the way. And yet—this is the annoying part—it works. Not in a “this is a good film” sense, but in that grimy, late-night cable, “I probably shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am” way.
The premise is pure pulp: in a dystopian future where the economy has collapsed (because of course it has), prisons have turned into profit-generating entertainment hubs. The main attraction is the Death Race, a gladiatorial car battle where inmates drive weaponized vehicles and murder each other for the amusement of a bloodthirsty audience. Jason Statham plays Jensen Ames, a wrongfully convicted ex-racer forced to step into the role of a masked legend named Frankenstein. It’s as blunt and ridiculous as it sounds, and the movie never once tries to elevate it beyond that. There’s no pretense of social commentary that isn’t immediately undercut by another machine gun turret popping out of a car hood.
Anderson directs the whole thing like he’s permanently hopped up on energy drinks and early 2000s music video aesthetics. The camera is constantly moving, cutting, shaking, and occasionally losing track of what’s happening entirely. Action scenes are edited within an inch of their life, creating a sense of chaotic momentum that’s exciting in the moment but completely disposable five seconds later. It’s visual junk food—greasy, loud, and weirdly satisfying even when you know it’s terrible for you.
A huge part of why Death Race remains watchable—arguably the biggest reason—is the decision to cast Jason Statham in the lead. This is exactly the kind of role his entire screen persona was built for, and the film leans on that heavily. Statham doesn’t bring depth or complexity, but he brings something more valuable here: credibility. You believe he can survive this world. You believe he can drive, fight, and endure the endless barrage of chaos being thrown at him. In a movie this dumb, that kind of grounding goes a long way. Swap him out for a less naturally commanding actor, and the whole thing probably collapses under its own stupidity.
That’s not to say he’s delivering some kind of nuanced performance. He isn’t. He operates in that familiar Statham mode—minimal dialogue, maximum scowl, and a constant sense that he’s two seconds away from breaking someone’s arm. But that simplicity works in the film’s favor. He becomes the one stable element in an otherwise unhinged movie, a human anchor that keeps the madness from drifting into outright parody. The choice to center the film around him is one of the few decisions here that feels genuinely smart, even if everything surrounding it is chaos.
Then you’ve got Joan Allen, who plays the prison warden with a level of icy commitment that almost tricks you into thinking the movie has something deeper going on. She treats the Death Race like high art, which is both hilarious and oddly effective. There’s a strange tension between her seriousness and the film’s inherent stupidity that gives Death Race a bit more texture than it probably deserves. She’s acting in a better movie that doesn’t exist, and somehow that makes this one more watchable.
But let’s not kid ourselves—this is not a good film. The characters are paper-thin, the dialogue is aggressively functional, and the plot moves forward with the grace of a sledgehammer. Emotional beats land with a dull thud, and any attempt at stakes is drowned out by the next explosion or metal-on-metal collision. It’s the kind of movie where you can predict every major turn five minutes in advance and still not care because you’re too busy watching a car fire a missile at another car.
What makes Death Race oddly compelling, though, is how completely it commits to its own stupidity. There’s no wink to the audience, no self-aware humor trying to soften the edges. It plays everything straight, which paradoxically makes it feel more honest than a lot of “so bad it’s good” movies. It’s not trying to be clever or subversive—it just wants to show you armored cars smashing into each other while people scream and things explode. And on that level, it absolutely delivers.
There’s also something weirdly nostalgic about it. It feels like a relic of a very specific era of action filmmaking, where grit meant desaturated colors, shaky cameras, and protagonists who communicated exclusively through clenched jaws and short sentences. It’s pre-Mad Max: Fury Road, pre-the current wave of more thoughtfully constructed action cinema. Death Race exists in that awkward middle ground where filmmakers had access to bigger budgets and better effects but hadn’t quite figured out how to use them with any real finesse.
And yet, despite all its flaws—or maybe because of them—it’s entertaining. Not in a “this is a masterpiece” way, but in that guilty pleasure sense where you’re fully aware of how dumb it is and still having a good time. It’s a film that succeeds almost accidentally, powered by sheer momentum and a refusal to slow down long enough for you to think too hard about what you’re watching.
In the end, Death Race is a mess. A loud, clunky, overedited mess with delusions of intensity and a complete disregard for nuance. But it’s also a perfect example of a movie that’s entertaining despite itself. It shouldn’t work, and on paper, it really doesn’t. But between the explosions, the ridiculous premise, and—crucially—Statham’s perfectly calibrated presence, it finds a groove and sticks to it. You don’t respect it, you don’t admire it—but you kind of enjoy the hell out of it anyway.
The Shamrock Kid (James Ellison), Lucky (Russell Hayden), and the Colonel (Raymond Hatton) ride into the town of Cattle Junction. They are on the trail of a group of outlaws who have been causing trouble but everyone in town mistakes them for being outlaws themselves. Feisty ranch owner Anne Hayden (Julie Adams, beautiful as always) even locks them in a basement to keep them from causing trouble! Far more serious, though, is Jim Morgan (Stephen Carr), who tries to hire the men to force the ranchers off of their property.
This is a typical homesteader vs ranchers film. The story behind the making of the film is more interesting than the film itself. It was one of six films that the director and the cast shot concurrently over the course of a handful of days. Each day, the cast and crew would set up at a different location and shoot scenes for all six films. The other interesting thing about this film is that Elllison and Hayden were better known for playing Hopalong Cassidy’s sidekicks than for being leading men. Like Fuzzy Knight (who appears in this film), Ellison and Hayden were born sidekicks. They were likeable but not particularly convincing as being tough lawmen.
This film has all of the familiar faces who usually appeared in these films, actor like Fuzzy Knight, George Cheseboro, Tom Tyler, and Bud Osborne. Fans of the B-western genre will be happy to see them but the overall film is memorable only for Julie Adams. I wonder if this movie was a hit in Colorado.
Back in the day, The Guvnors were one of the most feared and powerful firms around. Based in London, this group of football hooligans were famous for the brutality of their fights. More than 20 years later, they’ve all retired from hooliganism and, more or less, gone on to live normal lives. (One of them is a cop!) Their former leader, Mitch (Doug Allen), preaches non-violence and worries about his son copying his past mistakes. When he runs into the former members of a rival firm at a soccer game, he makes a point of shaking hands with them. The past is over.
When young drug dealer Adam (Harley Sule) takes over a London manor estate, he is eager to fight the former members of the Guvnors so that he can establish that he and his gang are now in charge of the neighborhood. Mitch tries to ignore him until a former Guvnor, Mickey (David Essex), is murdered in his home. Mitch gets the old firm back together again for one last brawl.
Also know as Hoodies vs Hoodlums, The Guvnors is gritty but contrived, with action that plays out at a slow pace while managing to hit just about urban gang movie cliche imaginable. There was a lot of potential to the idea of Mitch getting the old gang back together again but it doesn’t happen until nearly an hour into this 95-minute movie so, with the exception of a sepia-toned flashback, we don’t really get much of an idea of who these people were in the past. Doug Allen project quite authority as Mitch but rapper Harley Sule (credited here as Harley Sylvester) is unimpressive in the role of Adam. He doesn’t come across as being a dynamic enough leader to take over a manor estate, let alone defeat a group of middle-aged football hooligans.
Despite a premise with a lot of kick, The Guvnors misses the goal.
“They say there’s just enough religion in the world to make men hate one another, but not enough to make them love.” — Louis Cyphre
Angel Heart is one of those ’80s movies that sneaks up on you, starting like a gritty detective yarn before plunging into supernatural muck that leaves you questioning everything. Alan Parker’s 1987 neo-noir gem, adapted from William Hjortsberg’s Falling Angel, stars Mickey Rourke as Harry Angel, a down-and-out private eye in 1955 New York who gets pulled into a case that reeks of bad karma from the jump. It’s casual viewing at first—rain-slicked streets, fedoras, the whole bit—but Parker’s got a critical eye for blending hardboiled noir with occult horror, making it stick like gum on your shoe long after the credits roll.
Harry’s your classic hard luck of a gumshoe, hustling divorce cases in a dingy office when this slick mystery man named Louis Cypher (Robert De Niro, chewing scenery with devilish glee—get the name pun?) hires him to track down Johnny Favorite, a crooner who vanished after World War II. Cypher’s got cash to burn and an unsettling vibe that hints at deeper darkness, pulling Harry into a web of lies from the start. Harry follows the trail from NYC’s jazz dives to the steamy underbelly of New Orleans, where voodoo rituals, bloody murders, and hallucinatory nightmares start piling up like bodies in a back alley. Parker does a solid job adapting the source material’s clash of noir cynicism with Southern gothic rot, but his direction leans too heavily on the style of what he thinks a Southern gothic noir is supposed to look like—overripe with misty bayous and candlelit rituals—instead of letting the narrative drive the supernatural melding with the hardboiled detective beats.
What hooks you early is Rourke’s performance—he’s at his pre-meltdown peak here, all brooding intensity and rumpled charm, nailing the everyman unraveling under cosmic pressure. De Niro’s Cypher is a masterclass in minimalism; he lounges in that art deco office peeling a hard-boiled egg with surgical precision, dropping biblical barbs that land like gut punches. It’s not showy, but every word drips menace, elevating the whole film from B-movie territory to something almost operatic. Then there’s Lisa Bonet, fresh off The Cosby Show, diving headfirst into an X-rated role as Epiphany Proudfoot, Johnny’s daughter with a voodoo twist. Her steamy, sweat-drenched sex scene with Harry is erotic nightmare fuel—raw, uncomfortable, and unforgettable, pushing boundaries in a way that got the film slapped with an X rating before settling on R. Parker’s not afraid to get gory either; decapitations and ritual killings hit with visceral thud, but it’s the psychological slow burn that really twists the knife.
The film’s neo-noir DNA shines through in its voiceover narration, shadowy cinematography by Michael Seresin (those rain-lashed rooftops and fog-shrouded bayous are poetry), and a Trevor Jones score laced with eerie blues that pulses like a heartbeat from hell. Parker shifts gears from straight detective procedural to full-on supernatural dread, introducing occult hints gradually—a creepy voodoo ceremony here, a phantom vision there—until the genre flip feels inevitable yet shocking. New Orleans becomes a character itself, all humid decay and ritual undercurrents, contrasting sharp with New York’s cold urban grind. It’s Parker’s only stab at horror (he’s more Mississippi Burning or The Commitments guy), but while he nails the glossy nightmare aesthetic, the heavy stylistic hand sometimes overshadows the organic fusion of noir fatalism and otherworldly dread that the story begs for.
Critically, though, Angel Heart isn’t flawless. The late-game turns pack a wallop but drag a bit in laying out their logic, making you question the elaborate cat-and-mouse when a quicker path might’ve sufficed. Some dated effects in the dream sequences feel cheesy now, a minor blemish on an otherwise polished gem. Pacing sags slightly in the middle as Harry chases red herrings, and while the cast is gold, supporting players like Brownie McGhee as Toots Sweet add flavor without always deepening the mystery. Still, these are nitpicks; Parker’s atmospheric command and thematic depth—exploring guilt, denial, and the inescapability of one’s darker impulses—elevate it above pulp, even if the visuals occasionally feel more like a mood board than narrative propulsion.
Thematically, it’s a devil’s playground. Angel Heart riffs on classic Faustian tropes, but Parker’s critical lens probes deeper into fractured identity and moral rot. Harry’s journey mirrors the novel’s hardboiled cynicism, but the film amps the supernatural, turning noir fatalism into outright damnation. Mirrors recur obsessively—shattered glass, reflections warped by blood—symbolizing a crumbling self-image as buried truths bubble up. Voodoo isn’t just window dressing; it’s woven into the fabric, blending African diaspora mysticism with Catholic guilt for a uniquely American horror. Parker’s post-war setting adds layers, nodding to shell-shocked vets and racial undercurrents without preaching, letting the era’s shadows do the talking, though one wishes the story’s momentum had guided the gothic flourishes rather than the other way around.
Visually, it’s a feast. Seresin’s camera glides through rain-swept nights and candlelit rituals with painterly flair, while Parker’s British outsider gaze infuses Americana with alien menace—think Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil but grimier. The egg-peeling scene alone is iconic, De Niro’s Cypher dissecting morality with yolk-stained fingers. And those final confrontations? Subtle, actor-driven tension that relies on faces, not effects, delivering chills through implication rather than revelation. Jones’ score weaves jazz horns with dissonant strings, amplifying the bluesy fatalism; it’s the perfect auditory companion to Harry’s descent, grounding the style in emotional truth.
For fans of the genre mashup, Angel Heart is essential—think Chinatown meets The Exorcist, with Parker’s glossy sheen making it pop. Rourke’s turn here is arguably his career best, raw and vulnerable before the tabloid implosion; De Niro proves he’s the king of charismatic evil. Bonet’s bold pivot shocked audiences, earning a career-defining role that proved her chops beyond sitcom smiles.
Rewatch value is sky-high; the slow build rewards patience, and clues hidden in plain sight make it a puzzle box. It’s not subtle—Cypher’s name screams spoilers—but that’s part of the fun, a winking nod to infernal cleverness. Parker’s eye for detail shines in production design: peeling wallpaper in tenements, incense-heavy apartments, gator-infested swamps. It’s immersive, oppressive, and oddly seductive, with every frame dripping atmosphere that pulls you deeper into the haze, even if the narrative sometimes plays catch-up to the visuals.
In a sea of jump-scare slop, Angel Heart stands tall as thoughtful horror-noir that lingers because it forces you to confront the monster in the mirror. If you’re digging into ’80s cult classics or just crave a detective tale with teeth, fire it up. It’s flawed, yeah—style occasionally eclipsing story—but those flaws make it human, much like Harry himself.
Johnny Mack Brown rides across the old west until he reaches a seemingly abandoned ranch. Someone takes a shot at him with a gold bullet. It’s because the the ranch has a reputation for being haunted and everyone knows that the only way to take care of a ghost is to shoot at it with gold bullets.
(It’s common frontier knowledge!)
Johnny may says that he’s a simple cowhand who has been hired to look after the ranch but actually, he’s a government agent who has been sent to investigate the disappearance of rancher John Roberts (Forrest Taylor) and the theft of government gold. Bill Grant (House Peters, Jr.) is the main suspect in the Roberts disappearance but Roberts’s daughter (Lois Hall) insists that he’s innocent. Even though Roberts forbid Grant from seeing his daughter, Johnny Mack Brown suspects that Grant is being set up as well. Brown doesn’t buy the idea of the ranch being haunted either. If Fuzzy Knight was there, he’d probably see a ghost but Fuzzy takes this film off. Time for Johnny Mack Brown to investigate.
Despite the exciting title, Blazing Bullets is only a so-so B-western. Working without his usual sidekicks, Brown just goes through the motions and there’s not nearly enough action. A movie called Blazing Bullets should have had more blazing bullets in it. Today, it’s impossible to watch the film without expecting Harvey Korman to show up as Hedley Lamarr.
Originally filmed in 2010 but not released until 2018, Con Man is one of the strangest vanity projects that I’ve ever seen.
Originally entitled Minkow, Con Man tells the story of Barry Minkow. When Minkow was a teenager, he started a carpet cleaning business and he quickly learned how to both promote himself and how to lie about how much money he was making. The media ate up the story of the teenager became a millionaire by cleaning carpets. His father (Mark Hamill) was proud of him. His mother (Talia Shire) worried that he was moving away from God. A local mobster (Armand Assante) decided to get involved. It was eventually discovered that Barry was kiting checks, lying to insurance companies, and massively defrauding both his investors and his employees. After being busted by the FBI (represented here by James Caan), Barry Minkow was sent to prison.
In the film, teenage Barry Minkow is played by a young, handsome, and charismatic Justin Baldoni. When Barry gets out of jail, he’s suddenly been transformed into …. well, Barry Minkow. That’s right. Barry Minkow plays himself. Needless to say, Barry Minkow looks nothing like Justin Baldoni. It’s not just that the two men are different ages. It’s also that there’s no way to imagine Justin Baldoni transforming into the gargoyle that is Barry Minkow.
In prison, Barry Minkow is converted to Christianity by a prisoner named Peanut (Ving Rhames). After Minkow serves his sentence, he not only helps the FBI track down other con artists but he becomes the pastor of his local church. Despite his past, everyone loves and trusts Barry Minkow. Everyone talks about how charismatic he is, despite the fact that the adult Barry Minkow delivers his lines in a flat monotone and looks like he should be sitting over the entrance of a cathedral. People who suspect that they’ve been a victim of financial fraud start to come to Barry, asking him for advice. The always humble Barry is concerned that he’ll let people down but, in the end, even James Caan says that Barry is a great guy. “I’m doing the work of God!” Barry proclaims.
Yes, the film is fueled by pure ego. Unfortunately, it took more than ego to pay the bills so Minkow embezzled money from his own church, stole money from his congregation, and resorted to his old track of “clipping” checks to finance the whole thing. Shortly after the film was completed, Minkow was arrested and sent back to prison. (A hot mic caught Minkow bragging to James Caan about how he financed the film. After his arrest, Minkow denied he had ever said that and dared anyone with proof to turn it over. The film’s director proceeded to do just that. Barry Minkow was not only a criminal. He was a stupid criminal.)
As for the film, it sat in limbo for eight years. Eventually, talking head interview with Minkow’s actual victims talking about how much they disliked Barry were sprinkled throughout the film. (Shortly before Minkow starts playing himself, we hear one of his business partners say that everyone told him not to play himself.) The original film ended on a triumphant note. The new film — which was retitled Con Man — ended with real people talking about Barry Minkow going back to jail and casting doubt as to whether or not Barry ever even knew a prisoner named Peanut.
The film is a vanity project and not a very good one. Minkow is a terrible actor and, just in case we forget that fact, he reminds us by trying to hold the screen opposite James Caan and Ving Rhames. (Even Elisabeth Rohm manages to outact him.) As bad as the film is, the story behind it is endlessly fascinating. Barry Minkow was determined to become a star. (Spielberg’s Catch Me If You Can was an obvious inspiration.) Instead, he went back to prison and his vanity project was transformed into a roast. And it probably couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.
Victor Trenton (Brad Leland) is a high school football coach who is determined to have an undefeated season so that he can score a college coaching job. However, when one of his players, Benny Robison (Fred Tolliver, Jr.), dies of a previously undiagnosed heart condition during a grueling practice, Trenton’s plans fall apart. Instead of rescheduling the next game, Trenton insists that his players play it. When an assistant coach forfeits the game, Victor starts to become the town pariah.
This is a short and simple indie film about the price of win-at-all-costs competitiveness. Even before Benny dies, Victor Trenton is not a particularly likable character. A part of him does care about his players but an even bigger part sees them as pawns in his quest to get a college position. When Benny dies, Trenton refuses to take any responsibility and descends into drinking and self-pity. When Trenton is sued by Benny’s mother, Trenton insists that nothing is his fault. By the end of the movie, Trenton has started to take some responsibility but the movie doesn’t end with a definite resolution. It’s up to the viewer to decide whether or not Victor Trenton is responsible or truly sorry for Benny’s death.
It’s not a totally satisfying viewing experiences but Brad Leland gives one of the most authentic “coach” performances that I’ve ever seen. He knows how to win football games and, for his hometown, that’s enough until it isn’t.
Through the Shattered Lens 