How to slaughter a legacy

So you think you can make a crap movie about the greatest race horse of all-time and get away with it? I don't think so.

Originally posted on smilepolitely.com. Posted in ARTS to Film by Jamie Newell on Friday, October 8, 2010 at 4:00 pm



I've been holding a grudge against Seabiscuit for several years. After all, he got a movie deal before the great Secretariat, and if any race horse deserved a movie made about him, it's Secretariat. "Big Red" was the greatest race horse of all time; surely anybody with half a brain could see the potential in a great biopic, right? I should've been careful what I wished for. Now I'm holding a grudge against Seabiscuit because he got the better film treatment.

Being a person who lives and breathes both horse racing and movies, I went into this film with a unique perspective. Fully aware that Hollywood usually screws up a perfectly good story, I was willing to forgive a reasonable amount of factual errors or glossing-over of facts so long as they captured the magic of the true story. With Secretariat being my favorite race horse of all-time (and widely worshipped as a god by the general populous in the sport), I knew I would have to go into the film particularly restrained if I was going to hope to enjoy it.

The big red horse that captivated a nation.

 If you are unfamiliar with Secretariat, he was the big red race horse wearing white and blue silks that came onto the scene when America was broken from the Vietnam War and the beginnings of the Watergate scandal; it was this miracle horse, who became the first horse to win the Triple Crown after a 25-year drought, that brought the public together. The year was 1973 when Secretariat won the Kentucky Derby, Preakness, and Belmont, and his mark has been felt each time those races have been run since—no horse has surpassed his track record times in those three races, and no horse has ever displayed the versatility and sheer dominance of him in the history of the sport of kings.

Directed by Randall Wallace, Disney's Secretariat follows the story of his owner, Penny Tweedy, who broke the walls down in a man's world and ended up saving the farm thanks to her steadfast belief in the superhorse. Diane Lane stars as Ms. Tweedy, and is only mildly convincing in this role as the strong woman who carried the burdens of her parents' failing breeding farm. Lane plays the role with a breeziness, despite Tweedy's hardships, but her strength is too Disney-fied to feel like this woman could put men in their places, as the real Penny did. Disney's Secretariat feels more like a Lifetime made-for-TV movie than a feature film. Even the mighty John Malkovich, who portrays a flamboyant version of Secretariat's trainer, Lucien Laurin, can't mix things up enough for it to feel very exciting, and that's saying a lot, given both the material they had to work with and the always-entertaining Malkovich. Otto Thorwarth plays Ron Turcotte, Secretariat's jockey, but he doesn't have enough lines or screen time for the audience to really get much out of his character, which is just as well, because the lines that come out of Diane Lane tend to border on plain cheesy. The best performance is delivered by Nelsan Ellis, who pulls off a quietly engaging performance as Red's groom, Eddie Sweat, and actually has some chemistry with the horse actors.

The film is worth watching if you want an introduction to the sport of horse racing and the legendary Secretariat, but for those industry insiders and fans of Big Red, the movie fails miserably as a tribute to our greatest king. If you fall within the first bracket, and are curious about the real Secretariat after watching the movie, pick up Bill Nack's book: Secretariat: The Making of a Champion. It's telling that the film was supposed to be based on Nack's book, but this acknowledgment was downgraded in the credits as merely "suggested by the story by Bill Nack;" the movie certainly feels like a major downgrade from the real thing. If you're a fan of horse racing, watching Disney's Secretariat is like hearing your favorite song through a monotone speaker; it sounds familiar, but all of the song's power and punch have been reduced to a distant echo.

Diane Lane and John Malkovich in Disney's Secretariat

There are moments that are just plain ridiculous. I tried very, very had to overlook some of the blatant atrocities, like filming the Belmont at quaint Keeneland Racecourse, a beautiful boutique racetrack that could fit inside the real Belmont's massive infield. But I cannot forgive the laughable scene of Sweat, Tweedy, and friends dancing around Secretariat as they wash him at the farm to some gospel song on the radio while no one holds on to the horse's lead shank. If you just syndicated a Thoroughbred race horse to stud for $6.08 million dollars, you would want to hold on to that horse with an iron grip. The film doesn't even try to understand the racing industry or what it means for a 2-year-old to win Horse of the Year, or even accurately depict the aura surrounding the Kentucky Derby. You can't tell me that they couldn't have dubbed in three more layers of cheering fans to simulate the raucous, drunken festival that is the first Saturday in May? Clearly, the moviemakers must've scouted the tracks when there were about 5,000 people present, and not on a full-blown gambling-happy, drunken adrenaline rush that is the spirit of the most prestigious race in America. In comparison, the Kentucky Derby as depicted by Disney is a stroll along the promenade, full of appreciative fans golf-clapping the favorite in the post parade. And all of this came before I was truly disappointed in the film.

Secretariat's world record-breaking victory in the Belmont.

The one part of the movie I knew I could not forgive was if the filmmakers screwed up Secretariat's Belmont Stakes victory, which is widely considered one of the all-time greatest performances in all of sports. Not just in horse racing. In all of sports. How is it possible to screw up one of the most impressive, exciting, and emotional events of all-time? Disney must teach a class on it, because they bombed this moment spectacularly. Not only do they butcher Chic Anderson's famous race call, which, for some reason, remained in-tact for the less-memorable Derby and Preakness calls, they made the Belmont Stakes, the climax of the film, a cinematic train wreck. With choppy editing, shaky close-up camera shots, and a fake, un-inspired race call, Disney's version of the Belmont is just another horse race at the movies. There is no emotion. There is no breath-taking scope. There is no drama. It all comes off false, and then the corny evangelical music comes in, and then the filmmakers succeed in making your jaw drop, because you can't believe they just topped their own atrocity. It's like if someone took the Mona Lisa and cut it to pieces and slapped it on the side of a bus so it would be easily accessible to everyone. They took something perfect, beautiful, and legendary, and not only ruined it, but defaced it.

The best portrayal of the three big races in Disney's Secretariat is the Preakness, the middle jewel of the Triple Crown. This is because they let you watch the actual, real-life 1973 Preakness footage originally broadcast on CBS without any horrible interjections. We are treated with seeing the real Big Red on the silver screen, and nothing is more precious than that. For anyone who knows horses, it also becomes quite clear that all the other horse actors they previously used to depict Secretariat in the film would've been Big Red's waterboys in real life. You just can't duplicate perfection, not even in the movies. He was that big, and that beautiful—something no Hollywood movie could ever replicate. I only wish it had been the Belmont footage, and not the Preakness, that had been used in the film, because then I may have walked away with some shred of joy after watching Disney's adaptation of the "impossible true story." Instead, I rushed home and pulled up the historic races on YouTube to exorcise the past two hours from my memory.

In other words, I'm ready for the remake.

 
For the love of God, click here to watch all of Secretariat's actual races

A scoop on the Secretariat film

Since IMDB.com hasn't officially listed exactly who is playing who for next year's Secretariat film by Walt Disney Pictures, I thought I'd get the jump on the all-knowing movie database by unleashing the casting information I was passed on by Mr. I-Wrote-the-Book-the-Movie-is-Based-on:


John Malkovich....Lucien Lauren

Diane Lane....Penny Chenery

James Cromwell....Ogden Phipps

Fred Thompson....Bull Hancock

Nelsan Ellis....Eddie Sweat

Eric Lange....Andy Beyer

Kevin Connolly....Bill Nack


ESPN.com recently published a great article on the scope of the film and how it will be different from Seabiscuit. You can read that article at this link.

For more official news about the Secretariat film, visit Big Red's website at this link.

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part IV

The last two races on Friday were the Hill Prince Stakes and the Brooklyn Handicap, both graded races, where the former of the two was downgraded in status after being taken off the turf. I was looking forward to seeing Affirmatif live up to his hype, but I wasn't sure how well he would perform on not only a dirt track for the first time, but in the river of slop the Big Sandy had become by post time. All during the post parade and the race, rain pelted down and can be seen in my photos like some sort of hovering translucent snow. It made for some great photographs, don't get me wrong, but it was not a fun condition to shoot in.

Unfortunately for Affirmatif, he was destined for second place, putting in a good effort against a colt that had run previously on the dirt and had been targeted toward his first turf start. Maybe his connections better rethink their gameplan. Here's my photo of Despite The Odds roaring down the sloppy track of Belmont with the sparse grandstands in the background. I found it depressing so few people were at the track on Belmont Eve. It's nothing like Churchill Downs the entire week of the Kentucky Derby. And I'm not blaming it on the rain. It's possible fewer people were in town because there was no Triple Crown on the line, but I'd be willing to bet Derby week is just some other kind of animal you don't see anywhere else. (All the more reason, I keep telling myself, why I should just move to Louisville...)

The Brooklyn Handicap also produced an upset, in a horse that beat only one other in his last time out: Eldaafer. This is what happens in the slop sometimes; the additional distance of 1 1/2-miles probably contributed to this wild card factor, too. I was hoping to see Fierce Wind make a comeback, after showing promise as a three-year-old and having been laid off for ten months after the Florida Derby, but he hadn't won since March of this year and didn't show up again here at Belmont. The horse I actually thought might win was Barrier Reef, but he was scratched before the race. Unless I'm paying attention to the post parade, sometimes I don't notice a horse never made it into the race until it's all over and done with. You kind of lose track of things when you're shuttling behind the scenes.

Anyway, the excitement of the connections was contagious in the winner's circle. You can't help but get carried away by other people's enthusiasm when their horse wins a big stakes race like this. My favorite shot of the day came when one of the connections of Eldaafer, a lady who might've been an owner, grabbed jockey Jorge Chavez and kissed him on the cheek. Someone stepped right in my line of vision for the kiss, but the shot I got afterwards turned out pretty comical, like she was some over-exuberant aunt grabbing her nephew's face for a big smooch. All in all, it was a productive day at the races for me.

While I was off getting muddy and wet, with water soaking my jeans almost up to my knees (I wish I was exaggerating), my husband ventured up in the press elevator to pick up a couple of press party invitations Jenny was saving for us. He came back with the news that although the party invites said to dress "casual," he asked Jenny what would be appropriate to wear and she had replied, "Don't dress up or anything. Just don't wear jeans."

Hmm... I don't know what "casual" means in most circles, but jeans definitely is my idea of casual. And since we had not packed our bags to New York with the knowledge we'd be attending any sort of soiree, we decided a quick trip to the mall was in order to look appropriate. In record time, we dropped off our muddy clothes at the hotel, then found the mall (thanks to our Internet access on our BlackBerries), zoomed inside, tried on clothes, and walked out in spanking-new outfits suitable for "casual" fare.

The party was at the posh Garden City Hotel, probably the fanciest hotel in the area, in the trendy Ultra Lounge. We walked in looking like we actually belonged, for once, and didn't immediately recognize a soul. That ended up being just fine, because I was starving, and they had a spread fit for a king while I looked around for Bill or Jenny.

Did I mention I like party food? There was bruschetta, and toppings galore to stack your own hord'vors, and all kinds of meat, dips, fruit, and unidentifiable nibblings that tasted amazing. They also had this cheesy macaroni that was out of this world, plus lamb and roast beef. And there was an open bar. Since I had been delicately chastized for not drinking the night before in Bill's presence, I decided I'd better attempt to drink something. I decided to try an Old Fashioned, in honor of one my favorite three-year-olds of that year. Turns out, I prefer watching the horse to tasting the drink. Bourbon is definitely not for me. To save me from holding a drink I wouldn't touch the rest of the night, my husband went to the bar and asked for a "girly drink with little alcohol," and was presented with a coconut rum fruity concoction that was almost as good as the Lillies on Oaks day. At least I made the attempt.

One of the first people we recognized at the party was Mine That Bird's trainer, Chip Wooley. We were immediately crying "unfair," because he was dressed almost exactly as he does on race day, with a black cowboy hat, jeans, and a jacket. I guess his idea of casual is the same as ours. He looked as if he was having the time of his life, grinning from ear to ear, just seeming on top of the world. People were coming up to him and congratulating him left and right, and so we did the same. He was so friendly. Bob talked to him a little bit about New Mexico, and I hovered on the fringe of the conversation, though I couldn't hear most of it. They had a live singer (who thought he was Billy Joel) and very loud music blasting in the room, which made conversation pretty difficult.

We also saw D. Wayne Lukas at the party, as well as jockey Stewart Elliott (from Smarty Jones fame), who was sporting a white motorcycle jacket that was driving a harem of girls wild. Being the socially awkward artist that I am, I let Bob do most of the talking while I took everything in and stuffed my face with party food.

We finally found Bill Nack and Jenny about a half hour into the party. When I showed Bill my drink, he actually hugged me. Chalk it up as my good deed for the day. A lot of small talk and mingling ensued, as well as an incident where the chef serving the lamb gave Bill a dirty look for dipping his slice of meat into the gravy (in his defense, he hadn't bitten into it prior to the dipping); we also spent a good amount of time talking with a writer for the Daily Racing Form, and spying on the writer of the Indian Charlie rag. In the background, a widescreen TV played each Belmont Stakes ever recorded in history over the screen, from start to finish. When the conversations started to die down, I wished I could've heard the racing calls. Races just aren't the same without racing calls.

Overall, the night was definitely exciting, but I'm more into the intimate nights out where you can actually hear the person next to you talking. It was just another experience I never thought I'd have, crashing a press party with a slew of big-name trainers, owners, jockeys, and press. Just another moment of this crazy Belmont week where I kept feeling someone was going to turn to me and say, "Wait a minute, you don't belong here." It was strange; in a way, I felt like I didn't belong there, but in a very real way, it felt like I was around my people, that I had, in fact, become one of them.

The older I get, the more narrow my focus becomes on where I belong in this world. Something about the world of Thoroughbred racing is very familiar to me, a place where I can feel at home, no matter how extraordinary the circumstances. I didn't grow up around horses in the flesh, or even attend my first race until I was in the twilight years of my teens, but racing is something you don't have to experience in person for it to get under your skin. It's about appreciating that common love, and I've found that people from all ranks are grateful to you for being a part of it all, whether it's a horse owner, a bettor, or another photographer. It's one of the unsaid wonderful things about this sport, that love and camaraderie.

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part II

It took me a few hours to upload all of my shots back at the hotel, and to dry off from the morning rain and mud. Once I returned to Belmont, I put my press credentials to use for the first time during racing hours.
The last time I'd been to Belmont Park, I was seventeen or eighteen years old. It was the first time I'd ever stepped foot on a Thoroughbred racetrack, and when you could say I broke my maiden by watching my first live race. I distinctly remember the first time I took in the immensity of Belmont's 1 1/2-mile oval, which was nothing short of the same breathtaking awe one experiences upon seeing the Grand Canyon. This was the site of the most famous race in history, where the mighty Secretariat blew away his competition by a jaw-dropping 31 lengths to become the first Triple Crown winner in 25 years. I envisioned his ghost jogging around the final turn, Chic Anderson's timeless words echoing in my head, "Secretariat is widening now, he is moving like a tremendous machine!"

I didn't get to see much but turf races that first day, but I was there long enough to get into trouble. Gawking at the paddock, nobody stopped me as I meandered up to the Secretariat statue and snapped away with my Canon automatic, and only when I began to walk through the tunnel next to the parading horses and got a dirty look from a groom did I realize I was probably not supposed to be there. I still can't believe nobody ever kicked me out.

I had very much the same feeling as I walked past the security and into the paddock with my press credentials, only this time, I had a renewed respect for it all. It amazes me how only five or six years can make you forget. Yes, I remembered the enormity of the track, but I had forgotten how gorgeous Belmont is. I see it on TV every year, but to be there, among the archways of ivy, and in the presence of the historic paddock, is to be transported to another time. It may be 2009, but it may as well have been 1969 (in 1968, the first grandstand was demolished and rebuilt into what stands today). Maybe I was too young to appreciate it all, or possibly it was too much to take in at once, but the sheer green of Belmont is overwhelming and even nurturing to the soul.

I took pictures inside the paddock of horses being saddled and taken down the tunnel to race, and for the first time, stepped into the winner's circle and into what I call "the gutter" to take a finish line photo. Honestly, I had no idea where I was going, or if what I was doing was against the rules. I pretty muched looked at what other people were doing and followed their lead. There weren't many photographers present on the Thursday before the Belmont Stakes, and not many people at the track, in general. It was still raining in a steady mist, just enough to make you soggy and annoyed (But really, it was hard to be in anything but bliss and awe in the position I was in--I hardly noticed how wet I really got). Standing in front of the fence separating the fans from the track was pretty amazing, even though it was just a maiden claiming race. It was like easing into a lifestyle you had in a former life, simple and practiced without having to think much about it.

After the race was over, and I'd gotten my feet wet both figuratively and literally, I decided to finally give Bill Nack a call. I had no idea what I was calling him for, exactly, but since he'd given me his cell phone number and had been so friendly, why not try to meet up with the living turf legend? Maybe I could at least offer to buy him a drink, now that we were finally in the same town.

He answered my call almost suspiciously at first, "Who is this?" and when I told him who I was, he actually chuckled! Maybe he didn't even know what he was going to do with me exactly, but he said he was working and I should call him back in an hour. I got some food in me in the meantime (ahh lovely reheated Sbarro pizza, how you save me), and after the hour was up, I called him and he said he'd meet me downstairs where I was, in the paddock.

That's pretty much when my trip shot off into the stratosphere of "what the hell is going on, and how did I get into this situation?"

Bill came down and greeted me like an old friend, and walked down into the heart of the paddock with me to check out the Secretariat statue. The statue had been involved in a freak accident only a week before when a horse got loose and somehow ran into it. Reportedly, only the base had been damaged, and Bill began inspecting it for any hints of trauma, as if checking over a precious Mercedes after an accident. The traditional blanket of carnations in honor of the Belmont Stakes was covering the base of the statue, so there was really no telling if any damage was visible. And then, almost comically, Bill asked if I'd take his picture in front of it. I'd been secretly trying to figure out how to take this shot without him realizing it all during his inspection, and gladly obliged.

I don't really remember what we chatted about during that time, I was and always am so humbled to be around him, I'm sure whatever I said was little more than small talk. I'm pretty much worthless in conversation with most people, I admit. I have no knack for sociability; I'm your patented mumbling writer/artist-type.

Anyhow, inexplicably, Bill decided I was worthy of a tour of his stomping grounds, and swept me up into the elevator marked "PRESS ONLY." He proceeded to take me up to the press box, which is located at the topmost part of the grandstand, where I was blown away by the posh view of the sprawling track. He then began introducing me to every other person in the room, from Dan Liebman, the editor-in-chief of The Blood-Horse magazine, to Tim Layden, the Sports Illustrated writer who penned the recent cover story of Mine That Bird's Kentucky Derby victory, "Did that really happen?" What made me really feel humbled is that he introduced me to Liebman as "An up-and-coming equine photographer" and had him give me his business card to submit my pictures to. While I didn't know the first thing to say to Liebman, except for "Thank you, I love your magazine" (LAME, I know), I found some sort of words to put together to gush to Layden over his article.

Bill showed me what he called his favorite thing in the press box, a complete collection of American Racing Manuals. Inside each is a complete racing record of all the noteworthy horses, Eclipse winners, you have it. I told him that's what I needed to answer The Blood-Horse's And They're Off! trivia question about Carry Back (which I guessed right, but didn't win the drawing of, thankyouverymuch). Bill is fascinated with statistics and numbers, a regular fiend of trivia. Go figure, if you've read his Bible on Secretariat, that's a given.

I asked him when would be a good time to cross the track to see Ruffian's grave in the infield, and he directed me to go before the races started tomorrow. I could tell he respected the fact I wanted to see it up close, but this day, he didn't seem like he wanted to revisit her story much. He did reveal to me the press box was where he watched Secretariat's Belmont, and how after the race was over, he was running down the stairs, shouting to one of Big Red's naysayers, "I told you he could go over a mile and a quarter!" What a view that must've been of those long 31-lengths; the best view in the house, really.

We were up in the press box for hours, watching races proceed beneath us and talking, among other things, about the historical fiction Civil War book he wanted to write, Barack Obama's mark on Washington D.C., and how he wished the person who instigated torture to P.O.W's would be revealed. This is the sort of conversation that crops up once you run out of horse racing anecdotes. Bill Nack has a lot of convictions about politics, and a good head on his shoulders when speaking about it. He also admitted he was often yelled at by his wife for throwing things at the TV, like when Bush and Co. said they probably made a mistake for invading Iraq.

On our way out of the press box, Bill introduced me to Jenny Kellner, an award-winning journalist and media specialist for NYRA. Though they never said how many years they've been friends, it's clear Bill and Jenny are very close. Bill said if we're not busy, we should join them for drinks at Waterzooi, a restaurant famous for mussels. How could I refuse?

After a hug and a kiss from Bill, I left Belmont Park that day feeling like I'd walked into some strange alien body, and it was all a dream. It was about to get a lot more surreal that night, when "some people getting together" ended up being an intimate dinner with Bill, Jenny, her husband, my husband, and I, sharing mussels, mozzerella, and a mousse over talk about the business, Cormac McCarthy, the AP, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Hunter S. Thompson.

The highlight of the night was Bill's precise recitation of the last page of The Great Gatsby while we sat around the half moon-shaped table and ogled in reverie. You see moments like this in the movies and say to yourself, "Nobody does that. That never happens in real life." By God, it does when you're surrounded by award-winning authors who knew legends of literature. Hunter S. Thompson actually typed out Gatsby's novel to learn how to form beautiful sentences. Bill told us a story about Hunter's sense of humor, how he found ridiculousness, black comedy in moments that were supposed to be serious and foundation-shaking; he also told us about the mounds of drugs he would take and barely seem affected by them. Of course, Hunter opperated on drugs, so it's possible nobody ever knew what he was like when he was off them.

I found out that Jenny was the person who was looking to buy my picture of Curlin I took in last year's Stephen Foster. Strange how things come full circle. At the time, I had been credentialed by nobody and had no idea what to tell the intern who asked me how much I wanted for the photo to run in an ad in the Daily Racing Form. In desperation, I had contacted Charles Pravata, a photographer I have deep respect for I knew through Flickr. He told me he would charge no less than $200 for three-day usage in print, so that's what I asked for. Obviously, that price was too high for NYRA. Jenny said their going rate for one photo is $100. Damn. The sad thing is, I'd told the intern I'd negotiate, but being an intern, the kid obviously didn't know what that meant and the deal never happened. Jenny and Bill exchanged a glance at this. In this moment, I suddenly felt like in a way, I belonged.

The night ended late for me, who was barely getting by on my measely four hours sleep, but I could've stayed for hours more with that great conversation. I discovered Bill likes wine, and one of his rules for drinking is to never drink alone, or while he's working. He was disapproving of my un-alcoholic beverage that night, but he was gentlemanly about it and didn't pressure me about it. They gave me a second chance to redeem my faux pas the next night: Jenny invited us to the press party on Belmont eve.

I found myself once more asking myself the phrase that would become the mantra of the trip, "How did I get here?"