With the count one an one ( dignified Pride of the Yankees, abysmal The Babe Ruth Story) Jackie Robinson forgoes a pinch hitter and steps up to the plate on his own to play the lead at the height of his career in his own biography. At times he is as wooden as the 34 Hillerich-Bradbury he swings but does manage to convey a sympathetic gentle, sensitivity in the face of hate, further emphasized by the fact he was still living amid rampant societal prejudice.
The film to its credit does not shy away from the blatant racism Robinson encountered on his journey to the majors by a white society still firmly entrenched in Jim Crow practice upon the pictures release. Some moments are heavy handed and far too much time is wasted on wind-ups and ground balls, yet I would dare any popular method actor of the day to reach down internalize and convey what the face of Robinson does on deck as he stoically listen to the slurs and insults of the fans around him. He was living it, not playing it.
The film to its credit does not shy away from the blatant racism Robinson encountered on his journey to the majors by a white society still firmly entrenched in Jim Crow practice upon the pictures release. Some moments are heavy handed and far too much time is wasted on wind-ups and ground balls, yet I would dare any popular method actor of the day to reach down internalize and convey what the face of Robinson does on deck as he stoically listen to the slurs and insults of the fans around him. He was living it, not playing it.