Director Oliver Stone's obsession with masculinity and violence has been evident for some time. From his early successes with Platoon and Wall Street to his over-the-top Natural Born Killers and U-Turn, he has consistently focused on charismatic men who take charge or suffer at the hands of those who do. So it's not strange that Stone would eventually tackle our nation's football fixation. In fact, the only surprise is that it took him so long.

Any Given Sunday stars Al Pacino as Tony D'Amato, the long-time head coach of the Miami Sharks. No, there's no NFL team with that name (the NFL refused Stone's request for its names and likenesses), but that's one of the few false notes in this otherwise true-to-life picture.

The movie begins, after an incongruous shot of an Indian rain dance, with a football injury. Jack Rooney (Dennis Quaid, The Right Stuff), the 38-year-old star quarterback of the Sharks goes down for what could be the season. Coincidentally, his replacement is also knocked out of the game with an injury. That leaves it up to third-stringer Willie Beamen (Jamie Foxx, Booty Call) who promptly vomits on the field. Not the warrior-leader D'Amato (or Stone) was hoping for. But with a combination of steady coaching, Beamen's own athleticism, and time, he gets better and soon gains the respect of the team's fans and owner, if not his own teammates and coach.

That locker-room intrigue is one of the most interesting aspects of the movie. Besides Beamen, whose linear progress on the field is outpaced by the exponential progress of his ego, there's Julian Washington (LL Cool J, Deep Blue Sea), the star running back who's more concerned about his endorsements than his team; and Luther "Shark" Lavay (Lawrence Taylor), a great linebacker whose career is threatened with an injury of his own.

Across the sideline, the characters are just as interesting. There's Christina Pagniacci (Cameron Diaz, There's Something About Mary), the daughter of a legendary owner who's trying to carve out a place for her own ownership style; Dr. Harvey Mandrake (James Woods, General's Daughter), who as the team's head trainer has to make Solomonic decisions in balancing the health of his players with the needs of his team; and a whole slew of wives, girlfriends and prostitutes to keep things interesting at night.

In Stone's playbook, the key figure isn't the quarterback, but the head coach. Pacino plays D'Amato as a proud man who knows deep in his heart that his best years are behind him. Struggling to keep his divisive team together, he's also struggling with what he's given up over the years, including his family and any hint of a social life. In fact, the only relationship he has outside the team is with a beautiful call girl (Elizabeth Berkley, Showgirls). Inside the team, he's trying to relate to the young upstart quarterback, massage the back and ego of his aging quarterback, and head off the intrusions of the owner.

If that sounds like a lot of characters, well you'd be right. But Stone, like coach D'Amato, does a reasonable job of holding it all together. While the film comes in at a bloated 162 minutes, the story moves along, snapping quickly from character to character, subplot to subplot. This is helped not only by the strong editing (Thomas Nordberg, Stuart Waks, Stuart Levy, Keith Salmon) which, with its quick cuts, creates a rushing momentum, but by the actors themselves who deliver their lines with gusto and passion. Pacino is particularly good in both his manic sideline moments as well as his subdued, off-the-field persona. This along with his wonderful portrayal in The Insider should earn him some award nods.

Stone is clearly trying to capture the visceral violence of the gridiron. The movie's many on-field scenes, from the opening injuries to the climactic playoff game, are dominated by intense, close-up collisions, tackles and screaming men. And the overwhelming sound design (loud, loud, loud) makes those moments roar like thunder. At first, the effect is exhilarating, but after a while it, along with the difficulty of making out what's actually happening, creates a numbing effect. I started wishing for the predictable camera angles and soundbites of Sunday afternoon television.

Besides the intersection of sports and violence, it's not exactly clear what Stone is after. Unlike JFK and Born on the Fourth of July, which had some arguments to make, Any Given Sunday is surprisingly void of any big pronouncements (besides the coach's admonition, "Can you win or lose like a man?"). The movie hints at materialism's corrosive effect on the sport, it toys with the ethical dilemmas of driven men, and there's a hint of the racial imbalance in the game. None of that gets below the surface, though, and instead we're left with the simple feeling that sport has become our religion. But that's been a truism for some time now.

Without any compelling philosophy, Any Given Sunday is left to win or lose on the basis of its story. Fortunately, it's a good one. The actors work well together, making us care about what's happening on this team. And if you can get past the strong language and gratuitous shots of scantily-clad women, Any Given Sunday scores. 

J. Robert Parks

Oliver Stone has no trouble recognizing a machine.  It is obvious that his experiences in life have bestowed a gift of instant recognition of any organization which will instinctually swallow people, regurgitate them, chew them up and spit them out, barely resembling what they walked in as.  So it was only a matter of time before he stumbled upon professional football and saw an opportunity to shine his piercing searchlight on it. The NFL would not give rights to Stone, but it is easy to see why when looking at how the director has treated history and individuals in the past; distorting them to conform to his convictions and aesthetic. Instead, the film follows the trials of the fictional professional football team the Miami Sharks, (a kind of cross between the Oakland Raiders and the Dolphins,) and more specifically the trials of their long-time coach Tony D'Amato, played in a first-rate performance by Al Pacino.

It is a shame that the NFL did not lend its support, mostly because it probably would have kept Stone in line, just a little bit.  Without having any guidelines at all, he is free to whip this universe around in any way he possibly can, and in this case he does so with such great flair and craftsmanship that we end up enjoying the ride a little bit more than we actually should.  What we are given is an original and exhilarating movie wrapped around a hollow and cliched story.  The Sharks are in the middle of a losing streak when their veteran quarterback Cap Rooney (Dennis Quaid) goes down and his replacement is called in.  Actually, one nice twist is that within a few plays the replacement goes down as well, and so the third stringer, an unknown black player is called upon.  Willie Beamon (Jamie Foxx) is so far onto the sidelines that he doesn't even know that he has been called to play and he is so nervous that he vomits in the huddle when he takes the field. 

We know that Willie will lead the team to victory, but Stone has a unique way of really playing out the suspense, and not as if we were watching on TV or from the stands. No, Stone lets us understand that the games and the season of a football team are measured and viewed in a much different way by the participants than by the spectators.  Television-like shots of overhead stadium views provide us the score, but on the playing field you would never know who was winning or losing.  "It is a game of inches," as D'Amato says during one of his locker-room speeches, and Stone delivers just that.  Each play explodes in a fury of feet, hands, faces, and legs.  Every pass could be intercepted, every running play could be stopped at the line of scrimmage, and you are never looking for the goal line. Instead, you are looking in the eyes of the growling and spitting defensive players through whom you will have to pass for any of those precious inches.

The inexperienced Beamon wins the game and starts to turn around the team's losing streak,  while also catching the attention of both media and the Sharks' owner and general manager Christina Pagniacci (Cameron Diaz.)  She is a ruthless businesswoman with an MBA from Cornell, who probably never thought she would be in this business, but who is determined to make it work on the bottom line.  She smells franchise building on the new rookie and sets out to pressure the already stressed D'Amato with demands to let Willie continue to start even after the veteran quarterback has been declared recovered.  Meanwhile, Beamon is having trouble coping with his fame; dumping his loyal girlfriend, spouting off whatever is on his mind to whatever media will listen, and finally disrespecting his team.  And that brings us to the message at the heart of this film and that is that there are things in life you simply cannot do on your own.  Team sports happen to be some of them.  Willie has to learn to be team player, and D'Amato tries to instill this in him. 

The process of molding a player is an interesting problem for the professional coach.  He can't yell at people because, though they may act like children, these players are grown men making a living.  Trying to instill discipline at that level of the sport involves a lot of tact and skill, and it is delightful to see Pacino exercise both in a performance that is so nicely understated from what it could have been if given to somebody with less brilliance.  A perfect example is when D'Amato finds out Beamon is changing the plays in the huddle.  He starts out by calmly explaining to Willie that when he changes the plays in the huddle he is "disrespecting a lot of people in this organization, people who have put time and effort into designing those plays."   However, Jamie Foxx is more than up to the challenge of Pacino, and answers him honestly by stating that since college he has heard coaches talk about being part of a team and about esprit de corps, "but it all boils down to the same thing: making money. The car payments. The house payments." He is right, that is the reality.

And perhaps that reality which hinders professional sports is also what beleaguers this film so much.  These football people are so incredibly wealthy it almost stretches the imagination.  Parties, 1500 dollar-a-night scorts, incredible houses, cars, and Japanese gardens populate the film.  It makes it hard for one to feel any sort of sympathy for the players, even when they are suffering at the hands of the team physician Harvey Mandrake (James Wood.)  A realist to a fault, he drugs, dopes and downplays injuries, all in the "best interests"  of the players.  "I could tell him how bad he is," Mandrake tells his naive, but good hearted protege Oliver (Matthew Modine,)  "but he will just say that he still wants to play."   Lawrence Taylor turns in a very surprising performance as one of Mandrake's victims, a linebacker who has been hit way too many times.  He generates genuine sympathy when pleading to still be allowed to play and sounding like a heartbroken little boy.  "Please Coach! Playing football is the only thing I know how to do! Please!"   However, behind that pleading is a financial payoff.  You see, if Taylor's linebacker gets a few more tackles, or a couple of sacks, he gets his million-dollar bonus.  Gone are the days when, as D'Amato's defensive coordinator (Jim Brown) puts it, "guys would peddle insurance or sell cars in the off season."  Stone may have started with the idea that he would expose the league as an evil, corporate greed monger, but it appears as if he fell in love with it all in the process. For a film in which the title is taken from the saying, (oft repeated by D'Amato,)  "on any given Sunday you are either going to win or lose," it is surprising to see the script having virtually everybody win.

Oliver Stone is an undeniable talent, however, and in Any Given Sunday he is also rewarded by a cast of great actors, and I include in that group some of the cameos by actual NFL legends. Even the opposing coaches, (played by the likes of Dick Butkus and Johnny Unitas,) are delightful to watch as they prowl the sidelines, each one with his own unique style.  Pacino does more than his share to hold the center of Stone's widening gyre of a film from spinning out of control. In just the first few minutes, he has a great moment. He is explaining the plays to his nervous third string quarterback, he pauses and shifts his eyes up and down, looking the youngster over once. That gesture speaks volumes.  In that instance, we know that D'Amato had probably never spoken to this kid before, (and may never speak to him after,) but still needs the kid to believe that the coach thinks he can do  it.  It is doubtful that his performance will be recognized at Oscar time, but it is truly great. 

One wonderful thing about the movie is that it actually doesn't stop at giving us great actors, it also gives us the scenes in which we want to see them.  We want to see Pacino and Foxx square off, we want to see Pacino and James Wood get into it, and we want to see Charlton Heston (as the Commissioner of the League) chastise Cameron Diaz.  We are not disappointed at all as Stone gives us those scenes and so much more. In fact, he spends so much energy and time, (the film is about three hours long,) giving us what we want to see, that it is almost as if he forgot to give us what we should see.  He diagrams the machine perfectly with detailed and sharp strokes, but he never really figures out what the machine does.  When the lights come up, we feel winded, but strangely unsatisfied. It is as if we were riding a stationary bike at high speed and eating a hot fudge sundae at the same time.  The experience is intense, pleasurable and certainly different, but in the end you find yourself wondering what the point was.

Art Hennessey