While Jackie Robinson was never in danger of Oscar consideration for this performance as himself, within the confines of a low-budget movie with a creaky script he does a creditable job.
And perhaps more to the point, his charisma is palpable ... and almost makes it obvious why Rickey decided he was the man to run the gauntlet in 1947. He's just so damned likable!
Also: I have to say that the heart of the movie -- and I don't think *any* actor could have done a better job here -- is the sequence where Robinson shows up for his first practice with the Montreal Royals. He tries to join a couple of pepper games without success and, on his third try, grows tired of being ignored and calls for a fellow player to throw him the ball. Cut to a medium close up of Robinson as he pounds his mitt and, with a poignant look of anxiety, expectation, and defiance, holds it up, asking for the throw.
Nearly as good is the smile that crosses Robinson's face when the player with the ball (who gets his own reverse shot, looking at his white teammates skeptically as if to say, "Should I throw to this {your racial epithet here}?") finally tosses it to him. That smile and Robinson's gesture with his glove on catching the ball -- the kind major league infielders usually reserve for acknowledging someone's sparkling play --says more than any dialog could. And it feels unscripted in its natural tension and release. Brilliant!
I doubt Robinson needed *any* coaching to do that scene. And I suspect nobody then or now could have done it better.
Robinson is the movie. Most everything else, with the possible exception of the young Ruby Dee's serviceable (if undemanding) performance as Robinson's wife, is window dressing.
And perhaps more to the point, his charisma is palpable ... and almost makes it obvious why Rickey decided he was the man to run the gauntlet in 1947. He's just so damned likable!
Also: I have to say that the heart of the movie -- and I don't think *any* actor could have done a better job here -- is the sequence where Robinson shows up for his first practice with the Montreal Royals. He tries to join a couple of pepper games without success and, on his third try, grows tired of being ignored and calls for a fellow player to throw him the ball. Cut to a medium close up of Robinson as he pounds his mitt and, with a poignant look of anxiety, expectation, and defiance, holds it up, asking for the throw.
Nearly as good is the smile that crosses Robinson's face when the player with the ball (who gets his own reverse shot, looking at his white teammates skeptically as if to say, "Should I throw to this {your racial epithet here}?") finally tosses it to him. That smile and Robinson's gesture with his glove on catching the ball -- the kind major league infielders usually reserve for acknowledging someone's sparkling play --says more than any dialog could. And it feels unscripted in its natural tension and release. Brilliant!
I doubt Robinson needed *any* coaching to do that scene. And I suspect nobody then or now could have done it better.
Robinson is the movie. Most everything else, with the possible exception of the young Ruby Dee's serviceable (if undemanding) performance as Robinson's wife, is window dressing.