Puritan values are leaving us lifeless
GROWING up, I loved Tim Burton’s Batman films. Even today, a quarter of a century after their release, both hold up. Michael Keaton’s awkwardness, Jack Nicholson munching the scenery, Christopher Walken and Danny Devito gleefully cranking camp villainy up to 11.
Sinister as all Burton films are – at least the good ones – the director never lost sight of Batman’s inherent silliness and never took the concept too seriously. How could you with an antagonist wearing tights and a daft helmet?
Well, Christopher Nolan certainly disagreed. His Dark Knight trilogy, released between 2005 and 2012, was pitch black, po-faced and played straight. Punters flocked to cinemas, critics united in praise. A quick look on Rotten Tomatoes reveals ratings of 94 per cent (twice) and 87 per cent.
Artistic
But me? I was left colder than the Bat Cave on a January morning. The whole thing was just too bleak, too joyless, too relentlessly grim.
I know that was the point. I know the trilogy possessed artistic merit. But, personally, I think superhero films should be riotous, self-deprecating and – above all – fun.
A bit like sport. For all the tribalism, for all the joy, anger and despair, we watch sport to be entertained. Not just by the spectacle, but by the characters.
George Best, Rodney Marsh, Matt Le Tissier. Nobody in sport is more beloved than the maverick, the hell-raiser, the non-conformist. So, why does our society seem so desperate to leach the colour and life from our sportsmen? Why are we trying to Nolan-ise our beautiful game?
This month alone, England cricketer Jonny Bairstow was condemned for a ‘headbutt’ on Australia’s Cameron Bancroft that was neither aggressive nor damaging.
Later, Lion Ben Duckett was forced to apologise for the ghastly crime of pouring a drink over James Anderson’s head.
In the wake of these ‘scandals’, ESPN described how the Ashes tour had taken a “slide towards ignominy”. The Sun lamented a “shameful incident”.
Then Jose Mourinho collected a bottle of Cravendale, prompting (literally) thousands of column inches about appropriate levels of celebration. What a load of rubbish, man.
All of this stuff is just so… mundane. It is what humans do. Has anybody reading this never chucked a drink around or done something daft in a fit of pique? What about those who write the headlines or batter footballers on social media? Ever since Teddy Sheringham settled into that Singapore dentist chair in 1996, any sportsman with the temerity to enjoy himself has been subjected to this brand of shrill, preachy puritanism. Just remember the abuse Wayne Rooney took after gate-crashing a stranger’s wedding and playing the piano while on England duty. Last time Gary Barlow did that he got a million views on YouTube and was lauded for making dreams come true. Poor old Wazza woke up to Boozy Bender headlines and a savage critique of his musicianship. Why are we so fixated on fermenting outrage, on demanding standards of behaviour from sportsmen that we don’t expect from other celebrities – or ourselves? You can argue that footballers should be role models, that their wealth and privilege demands a level of decorum.
Hell-raising
But ask yourself: would cricket be richer had David Gower stayed in the dressing room instead of flying a Tiger Moth over the Canberra Oval?
Would Robin Friday be so fondly remembered by Reading fans if not for the hell-raising that drove his managers – and the Thames Valley constabulary – to distraction? Do you want your sportsmen to be fallible, human and fun? Or do you want cold, corporate automatons?
Maybe you do. After all, millions of people prefer Nolan’s flawlessy-crafted yet soulless Batman movies. Maybe attitudes, like tastes, really have changed.
Nobody can fight change. But let’s not pretend, a decade down the line, that sport will be worthier, more professional – and utterly lifeless.