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I was watching Repo Man on cable the other night, Alex Cox’s great punk s.f. anthem about aliens and bad haircuts. There’s a sequence where Miller (most of the characters are named after a beer), played by Tracy Walter, goes on about cosmic coincidences: “It’s like, you could be thinking about something, say, a plate of shrimp. And then you’ll be talking to someone and they’ll say ‘plate’ or ‘shrimp’ or ‘plate of shrimp.’” Well, I was just thinking the other day that what America really needs is for the guy who created“Ally McBeal” to do a hockey movie. Oooh -- scary, huh?
Mystery, Alaska, written by cottage industry David E. Kelley (who in addition to producing “Alley” and “The Practice” wrote last summer’s giant crocodile flick Lake Placid) and directed by Jay Roach (who did both of the Austin Powers movies), presents the remote little burg of the title, a town where hockey is king. They play on a frozen pond, and only have enough players for two four-man teams (plus a couple substitutes each), but they take it verrry seriously. Which isn’t so odd -- it’s hard, typical smalltown Alaskan life, with few diversions. As one character, an otherwise likable skater named Skank (Ron Eldard from “ER”) says, “I like to fornicate and play hockey. They’re the only fun things to do in cold weather.”
They’re so good -- at hockey -- that a former resident, now bigtime sportswriter (Hank Azaria), gets them on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and as a publicity stunt sells the NHL on flying the New York Rangers up during All-Star break for an exhibition game. While all this attention does wonders to boost flagging civic morale, the possibility of looking like yokels on national TV against such world-class competition brings out even more furious-than-usual bouts of jealousy, remorse, adultery, family dysfunction, rampant teen lust, and accidental attempted murder.
Some directors build momentum slowly, making gradual revelations to inspire increasing sympathy for the characters. Mystery, Alaska grabs you immediately, opening with a shot of a skater flying down a frozen river, then cutting to a much-vaunted local “Saturday Game.” But from there the film loses its grip, frequently sinking into a quagmire of ill-advised buffoonery. Things don’t pick up again until the finale, a Rocky-esque affair in which the underdogs get a chance to show what they’re made of.
Russell Crowe puts in a good showing as Sheriff John Biebe, who’s played in The Saturday Game longer than anybody, but gets bumped from the team to make room for younger talent. Mike Myers also appears in a small unpublicized part as a network color commentator. A pleasant surprise comes in the sincere, understated performance of Bert Reynolds as the town judge and patriarch. But maybe the most interesting thing to come out of this film -- other than the idea of a hockey team using Little Richard as a secret weapon -- is the curiosity regarding what David Kelley, who did this because he’s a rabid hockey fan, will do next. After sports, giant reptiles, hospital dramas (“Chicago Hope”), med-school whizkids (“Doogie Howser, M.D.”), and quirky americana (“Picket Fences”), where do you go? We’ve got a pool going, and my money’s on a mockumentary about the first anorexic female Mormon bishop on Mars. C
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