I watch Field of Dreams each spring, soon after the beginning of the major league baseball season. Sometimes it's the only baseball I watch all year, but it's an important rite of spring. It always hits me right where I live, and moves my soul.
It occurred to me as I watched it this year that it might not be an objectively good movie, or as good as we who love it perceive it to be. I don't really know, because I'm not objective about it. Like Casablanca, it is a movie for the time, place and audience for which it was made; if it resonates within that cohort, that’s all that matters. As much as critics and the Academy might disagree, movies are experiential art—a conversation between film-maker and audience—the critic is a mere eves-dropper, kibitzer, or pedantic heckler. Teddy Roosevelt shared his dismissive view of critics, as meaningless, compared to the 'Man in the Arena'. Their airy, effortless evaluations of other people's product pale by comparison to the exertions of those who actually do the work; laboring for years to produce something, then sharing it with the public.
But I digress ... as is the prerogative of the true fan.
Field of Dreams was made by and for baby-boomer men, who carry unresolved conflicts with their fathers - fathers who may have passed away, or are otherwise unavailable to participate in resolving the conflict. We survivors are burdened with the memory of something we wish we had said, or something we said and can no longer take back. Our fathers are no longer affected by our carelessness, but that is of little consolation to us.
Field of Dreams is about second chances. The narrative is premised on the story of the Chicago 'Black Sox'—particularly Shoeless Joe Jackson—who had been banned for life from baseball, for conspiring with gamblers to throw the 1919 World Series. These long-dead ball players are able to come back, put on the uniform, and play their beloved game once again - thanks to a baseball field that the story’s protagonist, Ray Kinsella builds for them in the middle of his corn field. Ray's project had been prompted by obscure hints from disembodied voices, 'If you build it, he will come', and 'Ease his pain'. In any case, Ray builds the field, and these ghost players emerge from the corn to play on it.
At the risk of a spoiler ... after the guys were done playing for the night—yes, the field was lit for nighttime play—and were walking off the field, Ray sees a player who stays behind ... and recognizes the face of his own father, in the flower of his youth. There is no need for them to discuss or resolve their conflicts - the father Ray meets that evening is just a kid; for him, none of those conflicts have happened. The second chance for Ray is not to make up for anything ... it is just to see his Dad as a vital young man, and to 'have a catch' with him.
I loved the movie the first time I saw it, but understood it better on Fathers Day weekend, when my kid was in the first grade. Our family had a weekly tradition of renting a movie from Blockbuster as our Papa Murphy's pizza was being assembled next door, then taking it home, cooking it, and eating it as we watched the movie. Because it was Fathers Day weekend, I got to pick the movie, and this seemed to be the perfect choice.
My father had died the previous September, on the first day of fall. We had all held ourselves together for his service. I managed to deliver the eulogy my siblings had helped me craft, so we could say goodbye with a mixture of laughter, tears, and profound respect. Then I had a very busy fall and winter at work, and had put my grief into a drawer to deal with later.
Later turned out to be that evening. I had seen this movie before, so as we watched, I began anticipating scenes ― waiting to see which ones would test my composure. I don't remember if it was the first time the voices whispered, 'Ease his pain', or perhaps something before. The character in the movie, Ray, didn't yet know what this phrase meant, but I did, and the anticipation had me tied up in knots. The rest of the movie moved in calculated steps to the reveal of Ray's 'catch' with his dad. Watching this movie unleashed six months of suppressed emotion, which—once released—poured forth from me like the proverbial broken-down dam.
I have never tried to be the kind of Dad who keeps his emotions to himself, and remains stoic in front of my family. But I think by the time that movie ended—with a mound of soaked Kleenexes on the floor beside me—my daughter may have begun to envy her friends whose fathers were. From half way through the movie, Maddie stopped watching the screen, in favor of watching (and teasing) me as I convulsed and wept. It was an intense catharsis; I hadn't imagined how much I needed it.
The following year, I rented it again, hoping to recreate the feeling of that evening. I enjoyed watching it, but learned an important lesson ― catharsis isn't something one can trigger intentionally. It's like tickling yourself; it just doesn't work.
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Over time, the farm and the field where they made the film became something of a pilgrimage for men who fit the same profile as the original target audience. They would drive to the field, as to a secular Lourdes; bringing their families to stand at the plate, or run the bases, praying that whatever had been broken between them and their fathers might heal at this holy place, or at least, not be passed on in their relationship with their children. I read of one case where a man started running the bases, got to second, and collapsed to his knees, hugging the base, and weeping uncontrollably.
The field was sold a few years ago. The new owners have added many more bleachers, and finally hosted a major league game there this year, in what may become an annual tradition. I'm conflicted about this ― though admittedly conflicted from a distance. It feels opportunistic ― like a vendor opening a concession stand at the real Lourdes (which, no doubt, somebody has). But, as much as I love this movie, along with Bull Durham, the Natural, and others, I am not a baseball fan, so I don't think I have a say in the matter. I just love baseball as a metaphorical vehicle, with stories beginning in the fresh, infinitely hopeful blossom of spring, thriving in the heat of summer, and coming to a conclusion with the harvest. As such, I yield my sense of conflict with this pecuniary arrangement to those whose pain and delight are more closely tied to the real game. I will continue to watch this movie each spring, and will let my heart and imagination respond as they will.
