Ron Shelton's jubilant romantic comedy about a wild-man golfer restores my faith in American film. Hell, it restores my faith in American life. From the opening shots of dusk at a driving range on the outskirts of Salome, West Texas, where armadillos roam free and porch-loafers bet on which moth will fry on a bug light, Shelton creates a landscape that's more than the sum of its flora, fauna, sky, and sand. Even the road markers give off a ripe, raggedy resonance. The "Howdy, Friend -- You're Entering Salome, Texas" sign pictures the biblical stripper atop the legend "Where She Danced"; the billboard for the First Baptist Church stands next to towering letters that spell "Waffle House"; and the driving range itself proudly announces, "Last chance to hit golf balls fore 520 ML." The title song, "Little Bit Is Better Than Nada," begins to percolate in your head, and as Roy McAvoy, aka "Tin Cup" (Kevin Costner), takes a fierce slice or two at the golf ball, then challenges his cronies to wager on a riddle, a current of risky expectancy ripples through the air. Everything from the sight of a customized VW Beetle ball-retriever to the pop-hymn music surrounds you with a warm, inviting vibe -- one that McAvoy's spiky presence threatens to combust. This is the America of Ron Shelton: a place where a man can hang out without apology, secure in his own self-worth, until he's ready to take a leap into the void. Anyone who's appreciated Shelton's earlier films knows that the screen is being set for a tale of the cataclysms of the flesh and the ecstasies of earthly redemption. Tin Cup doesn't disappoint. By the end, a water trap becomes as life-altering and momentous as a baptismal font.
It's tempting to say that Shelton puts together movies the way a savvy manager puts together a team; after all, he has a knack for assembling sizzling lineups and he played minor-league baseball. But Shelton does something few managers do -- he not only brings out the best in his players, he also brings out the best in the ticket-buyers. Sitting at a preview in a mall theater a stone's throw from Pebble Beach, I rediscovered the communal bliss a big Hollywood film can engender when it gets viewers responding to wit, emotion, and personality rather than nerve pricks, chic, and mayhem. They -- I mean, we -- were with Roy McAvoy all the way, as he leaves his sodden, cozy existence as the pro at that armadillo-overrun driving range to try to qualify for the U.S. Open.
McAvoy mostly wants to win the heart of his sometime golf student, Dr. Molly Griswold (Rene Russo), the paramour of his erstwhile partner and current opponent, superslick touring pro David Simms (Don Johnson). But McAvoy also wants to go after a target (or as he puts it, pursue a quest) that provides a suitably grand outer focus for his multitude of "inner demons" (or as Dr. Griswold puts it, his "inner crapola"). As the writer/director of Bull Durham, White Men Can't Jump, and now Tin Cup (co-written with John Norville), Shelton exults in showing men and women working out their lives between pratfalls, the way Preston Sturges did throughout his career in films like Hail the Conquering Hero and The Miracle of Morgan's Creek, and the way Frank Capra did at his lighthearted best, when he made films like Broadway Bill and It Happened One Night. Watching Tin Cup, you still believe that we live in a land where the wind blows free, even when it emanates from a hot-air artist like McAvoy. Unlike those earlier fractured fable-spinners, Shelton sets his stories in high- and low-rent sports arenas where entire environments release a sensual aura of play. Tin Cup takes a guy from arid Salome to the Oz-like greens of the U.S. Open, and brings him to amatory satisfaction and athletic glory in his own wayward fashion. The question isn't "What's not to like about this movie?" The question is "What's not to love?"
Critics often seem befuddled at Shelton's blend of jockhood and literacy, but his last "sports movie," Cobb, had as much to say about the magnificence and atrocity of manic individualism as Orson Welles' "newspaper movie," Citizen Kane. And in the realm of erotic farce Shelton manages, without nostalgia or self-consciousness, to conjure the ambience of exploding possibilities that gave the greatest screwball comedies an atmosphere of 100 percent pure laughing gas. As in the Sturges and Capra movies, radically different characters chase dreams that tangle -- or tango -- with each other. The helter-skelter open-endedness of America once made it the perfect backdrop for modern fairy tales, and Tin Cup views today's fairways and highways in that gritty-magical manner. For 133 minutes Shelton and his collaborators convince you that in their company, anything can happen. At the preview I attended, the film burned and broke at the worst instant -- when McAvoy was about to confront the devil inside him on the most important, daring shot of his bizarre career. A stranger sitting one seat away told me and his girlfriend (who worked at one of the mall stores), "I don't know if he's going to make that shot or not, but I've got so much respect built up for this movie I think I'll be happy either way."
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