If you give a damn about Clint Eastwood you might be able to get past yet another baseball movie that can't hit one out of the park to save its life. A silly, unbelievable riff on fathers and daughter, with Eastwood crotchety old man talking to his penis instead of a chair, and his daughter Amy Adams risking the career she has spent every waking moment of the past seven years on, to join the sight failing father on a trip to scout a new prospect and heal a lifetime of wounds.
So how do they do?
Not so hot. In a convoluted relationship, Clint's patented dead wife croaked when Amy was six years old, and Clint left his daughter with her Uncle to raise. Something like that?
Now they have issues. As does Justin Timberlake as a washed up pitcher putting up with two hours of crap from Amy Adams.
By the end, a miracle (yes, MIRACLE) saves father and daughter from total disaster in this two hour rebuttal to "Moneyball" in much the same way "Rio Bravo" was a rebuttal to "High Noon". But just because it doesn't do much on the realism scale doesn't mean it isn't fun in its own sweet sour. In the twilight of his career, Eastwood has figured he can perform in saccharine family drams if he grits his teeth a lot and I have no problems with that. Justin might be a touch too sweet for the bitter baseball man who falls for Amy. Amy is superb as the double, a fine actor. And John Goodman underplays very well. Best of all is Matthew Lillard who plays the Brad Pitt in "Moneyball" role as a giggling psychopath. He should just change his name to Scorpio and have done with it.
Musically, unless your idea of fun is Clint singing "You Are My Sunshine" there ain't much doing. Justin and Amy dance to a country hoedown deal and again to a blues street musician between trading of baseball minutiae.
Movie: B
Music: C