Whoa, slow down there, Anne Hathaway. We know that after eight watered-down vodka cranberries, things can get pretty emotional in this private karaoke booth we've rented for your birthday. We know that your ex-boyfriend, the Italian schemer Raffaello Follieri, to whom you gave your heart away for the first time, got out of jail very recently. That has got to bring up a lot of mixed emotions for you.

But couldn't you have picked like, a Whitney Houston song or something? Maybe a little Patsy Cline? We mean, we are all friends here and do what you want, but you just seem like you are way to into singing Fantine's "I Dreamed a Dream" right now, and we think we speak for the group here when we say it's making us all feel a little uncomfortable. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5slbuWpZwjg
Honestly, you know who I feel bad for? Not Hugh Jackman, whose love of song is only rivaled by the disappointment of his female fans over his love of song. And not Russell Crowe, who only really has to do "Stars" and the Confrontation song before picking up his check and going home to throw a cell phone and some peasant paparazzo. Not even Amanda Seyfried, since she's sort of a neutral substance that is never really affected by all the crappy films she's in.

No, we feel really bad for poor Eddie Redmayne, who is still the second least important "star" of the film adaptation, despite his breakout performance in My Weekend with Marilyn. Poor Mr. Redmayne. Well, at least we can stop imagining Marius as inexplicably chubby. And we bet you will not be able to stop from tearing up when he kicks in during "A Little all of Rain."

A good, another round of kamikaze shots. No, Anne, give us back the mic. We're not going to let you go twice, even if it is your special day, and you really are feeling like Sally Bowles' "Maybe This Time."

John Brennan (Russell Crowe) is a bearish, mild-mannered English professor at a community college in Pittsburgh (Mr. Crowe struggles with the accent at first, but admirably controls his phone-throwing). We get to see only a five-minute window into his life before the plot goes bananas, but we learn that he's got a beautiful wife named Lara (Elizabeth Banks) who gets so worked up after a fight with her boss that she lustily mounts her husband in the front seat of their environmentally responsible sedan. The next morning, she rustles the hair of their Sears-catalog-perfect 6-year-old son, Luke (Ty Simkins), and injects some insulin into her shapely thigh. Then she finds blood on last night's blouse. And then she gets arrested for her boss' murder.

A few years later, Lara's in the clink and John and Luke are making do, although the former is depressed and lonely and the latter sports the bowl cut and vacant eyes of the kid from The Shining. For her part, Lara mostly misses sex and (from the looks of it) a blow dryer; Ms. Banks plays an early jail-visit scene as though she's flirting with her husband over cocktails. John is handling Lara's appeal, but it's not going well--through a series of odd flashbacks and some expository dialogue from the Brennans' lawyer (Daniel Stern, in what amounts to a walk-on cameo), we learn that after their public spat, Lara's boss was bludgeoned to death with a fire extinguisher in the office parking lot. A co-worker saw Lara leaving the scene of the crime, but she maintains it was a robbery perpetrated by a young woman she bumped into on the way to her car. Lara's prints are on the weapon, and the only defense she has is her insistence that she heard a button pop off the assailant's sweater. The button has stubbornly neglected to turn up, and when the request for an appeal is denied, Lara attempts suicide, prompting John to hatch a plot to break her out of jail and flee the country.

A man of letters, John begins his descent into criminality by tracking down Damon Pennington (Liam Neeson), the author of a memoir about multiple successful prison breaks. He learns that he needs fake passports and a reserve of cash to live off of once he gets his family to Yemen (Pennington's suggestion) or whatever far-flung, American-tourist-free destination he chooses, so he trolls around Pittsburgh's seedier neighborhoods, getting roughed up and robbed by drug dealers until a deaf biker (yes, really) takes pity on him. John also consults YouTube for tutorials on how to create a "bump key" (a key that will open any lock) and how to break into a car. His first effort at breaking and entering--into the elevators of Allegheny County Jail, the real Pittsburgh correctional facility that serves as a location for much of the action--results in nervous vomiting, but before long he's fatally shooting people and setting fire to meth labs like a seasoned pro (which, incidentally, is much more believable than Russell Crowe's lecturing college freshmen about Don Quixote, Haggis' heavy-handed choice of literary parallel).

The second half of the film picks up the pace, offering moments of real suspense as John finally carries out his plan, but the elements of the escape (doctored medical records, elevator roulette, costume changes, chases through hospital corridors that send orderlies sprawling) aren't anything new, and while Mr. Crowe is compelling as the desperate, morally ambiguous hero, Ms. Banks' Lara is so bland and bloodless that one wonders why her husband would risk so much to be with her (I can only conclude that the sex in the Prius must have been spectacular). Mr. Haggis avoids answering the question of whether Lara is actually guilty for most of the film, which is meant, I suppose, to indicate that it doesn't matter, and that John would do anything for the woman he loves, regardless of her virtue. But the details of the murder seem more ludicrous as the movie progresses (a fire extinguisher? A button?), and when the truth is finally revealed--through another flashback that looks like an Unsolved Mysteries reenactment--it feels more like an afterthought than a climax.

Speaking of afterthoughts, Olivia Wilde has a bit part as a single mom who unwittingly aids and abets the Brennans in their escape, and Brian Dennehy lurches silently through a number of scenes as John's working-class father. It's jarring to see such big-name actors in such thankless roles; unlike Crash, The Next Three Days is not an ensemble film, and the supporting players have little do but stare meaningfully at Mr. Crowe (Mr. Neeson has the meatiest of the scraps, but even he is onscreen for only five minutes). Ms. Wilde does get one of the film's only laughs, however. After revealing that his wife is in prison, John sputters defensively, "She didn't do it. She didn't kill that woman."

"Oh," Ms. Wilde's character says, taken aback. "Good!"

What else is there to say, really?

The Next Three Days
Running time 122 minutes
Written and Directed by Paul Haggis
Starring Russell Crowe, Elizabeth Banks, Ty Simpkins, Brian Dennehy, Olivia Wilde, Liam Neeson

1.5/4

Robin Hood

What's the story: Think of it as Batman Begins but with Robin Hood. Russell Crowe and director Ridley Scott team up for the fifth time (!) in the past decade for Robin Hood, a prequel of sorts to the classic tale of merry men. But lest you think this is your grandfather's Robin Hood (or even your own—Kevin Costner for life!), Messrs. Crowe and Scott eschewed the fluffier aspects of the legend in favor of a gritty realism. Which is code for "this won't have as much action and humor as you think it should." The reviews confirm as much—apparently, all the action from the trailer takes place in the final 20 minutes—and it makes you wonder: Will summer audiences want to spend two and a half hours with something so drab, especially without the promise of a theme by Bryan Adams?

Who should see it: Kevin Costner.

Letters to Juliet

What's the story: Because it's been about six weeks since Amanda Seyfried had a movie in theaters—we still remember you, Chloe—here comes Letters to Juliet, a Nicholas Sparks–like romance without the heartbreak. Ms. Seyfried stars as a young and hopeful journalist (is there any other kind?) on holiday in Verona, Italy, who uses her obsession with Romeo & Juliet to help an old grandmother (Vanessa Redgrave) find a long-lost love. There's an inattentive boyfriend and a grandson, too, and based on those descriptions, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out which guy winds up kissing Ms. Seyfried at the end. (Hint: Not the boyfriend.) Critics have been unkind—our Rex Reed calls Letters to Juliet "maddeningly predictable"—but considering Ms. Seyfried was able to turn Dear John into a box office success, does it matter?

Who should see it: Nicholas Sparks.

Just Wright

What's the story: What kind of movie is Just Wright? The kind where the Wright in the title refers to Queen Latifah's character, Leslie Wright, a physical therapist who helps an NBA player (Common) recover from a knee injury. Naturally, she becomes smitten, but since her best friend is busy going on Basketball Wives with him, there are some problems. NBA players Dwight Howard, Rajon Rondo and Dwayne Wade make appearances, so if you're a girl trying to talk your boyfriend into seeing this, drop their names and see if that works. But be forewarned: The reviews are gaseous.

Who should see it: Lebron James.

Also opening this weekend: The DIY drama Touching Home; Ken Loach's latest, Looking for Eric.

1. 17 Again: $24.1 million ($24.1 million total)

This isn’t the type of opening that shakes the ground, but $24.1 million for a body-swap comedy from the director of Igby Goes Down certainly counts as a statement for Mr. Efron. Now comes the hard part. If word of mouth is strong, 17 Again could finish with over $80 million in grosses; if it isn’t, expect something around $60 million. In the meantime though, let’s take this moment to congratulate Matthew Perry. 17 Again is the largest opening of his career, and there is a good chance it will surpass The Whole Nine Yards as his top grossing film before all is said and done.

2. State of Play: $14.1 million ($14.1 million total)

The good news for Russell Crowe is that this opening is slightly larger than his last film, Body of Lies. The bad news is that Body of Lies was an outright bomb. Things don’t appear to be so dire for State of Play—the $14.1 million gross is higher than experts had predicted—but there isn’t a whole lot to get excited about here. Consider this: For all its star power, State of Play could barely top the fourth weekend of Monsters Vs. Aliens.

3. Monsters Vs. Aliens: $12.9 million ($162.7 total)

With Observe and Report grossing only $4 million over the weekend, for an anemic total of $18 million thus far, perhaps Seth Rogen should recalibrate his expectations. As a box office draw, he’s best served in an ensemble comedy built around a conceit—see: Knocked Up, Superbad, The 40-Year-Old Virgin. But put him in a cartoon and the man turns into Will Smith. Mr. Rogen’s last four animated features—Monsters Vs. Aliens, Kung Fu Panda, Horton Hears a Who and Shrek the Third—have pulled down an average of $213 million at the box office. Being the next Dan Castellaneta might not be sexy, but it can certainly pay the bills.

4. Hannah Montana: The Movie: $12.6 million ($56.1 million total)

While Hannah Montana: The Movie will end up surpassing Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus: Best of Both Worlds Concert Experience, it probably won’t top $80 million in box office receipts, and with the built-in audience, that seems a bit disappointing. So now the question of where Ms. Cyrus’ career goes from here needs to be addressed. Might we suggest a distaff sequel to 17 Again?

5. Fast & Furious: $12.2 million ($136 million total)

This just keeps chugging along. If Fast & Furious can squeeze another $8 million out of its theatrical run—something that seems more than likely—it will become the highest grossing film in the entire franchise. Somewhere, Lucas Black just pounded his fist in a fit of anger.

State of Play

What’s the story: Based on the acclaimed BBC miniseries, State of Play finds Russell Crowe (looking increasingly like a fat Eddie Vedder) starring as the Last of the Mohicans—a Washington, D.C.–based investigative reporter tasked with solving the mystery of a congressman’s dead mistress. The film culls the BBC original down from six hours to a manageable two thanks to help from a trio of testosterone-heavy screenwriters—Tony Gilroy (Michael Clayton, the Bourne movies), Matthew Michael Caranahan (The Kingdom) and Billy Ray (Breach, Shattered Glass)—and apparently leaves in enough of the essence to make fans happy. We can’t say we’re all that excited for State of Play, which looks a tad too on-the-nose for our tastes, but the fantastically pastiche cast—Ben Affleck, Rachel McAdams, Jason Bateman, Helen Mirren and Jeff Daniels, Viola Davis—has our interest piqued.

Who should see it: Woodward and Bernstein.

17 Again

What’s the story: If you’ve been waiting for the next big movie star to arrive, allow us to introduce to you Zac Efron. After being a part of ensemble successes like High School Musical 3 and Hairspray, the Disney Channel stalwart steps out in front for the very first time in 17 Again—a vapid-looking body-swap comedy that takes parts of Big, Mrs. Doubtfire and Like Father, Like Son and repurposes them for a new generation. We’d like to hate, but Mr. Efron seems genuinely charming and self-effacing (for reference, check out his hosting stint on Saturday Night Live last weekend). We’re powerless before his floppy hair and, chances are, audiences will be as well.

Who should see it: Kirk Cameron.

Crank 2: High Voltage

What’s the story: The tag line for Crank 2: High Voltage, a sequel to the surprise 2006 meathead action hit starring Jason Statham, says all you need to know about the follow-up: “He was dead … but he got better.” Sounds good to us!

Who should see it: People who thought the first Crank was too reality-based.

Kevin MacDonald’s State of Play, from a screenplay by Matthew Michael Carnahan, Tony Gilroy and Billy Ray, is based on the six-hour BBC miniseries created by Paul Abbott. The action has been shifted from London to Washington, D.C., which lends itself rather too easily to all sorts of conspiracy scenarios.

Russell Crowe plays Cal McAffrey, an investigative reporter for the Washington Globe, who has many potential conflicts of interest as he pursues the mystery of several seemingly unrelated homicides that are eventually connected to a Congressional committee overseeing corruption charges in the defense budget. The chairman of the committee, Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck), is a rising political star in the Kennedy mold, and an old friend of McAffrey’s. The reporter is thus thrust into a difficult position by his hard-headed editor, Helen Mirren’s Cameron Lynne, who wants a front-page story to emerge from the political scandal arising from the mysterious death of Senator Collins’ beautiful young staff member, Sonia Baker (Maria Thayer), with whom Collins had an affair.

A further complication for McAffrey in covering the story is his own old affair with Robin Wright Penn’s Anne Collins, Stephen’s wife, torn between loyalty to her husband’s ideals and regrets for the lost intimacy they once shared. McAffrey’s guilt over his betrayal of his old buddy impels him to shape his story in a way that will not damage his friend’s reputation. McAffrey is thus compromised from the outset and is helped in finding his way back into honest journalism by a nervy young Globe blogger and cub reporter, Rachel McAdams’ Della Frye. One of the refreshing aspects of the film is the nonsexual relationship between McAffrey as an old-style journalist and Della Frye as his technologically more advanced disciple. Between them, they find all the missing links to the exploding Washington, D.C., political scandal that finally hits the front page of the Globe.

The result is a dark, dour film, both literally and figuratively, as cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto’s suspense-laden camera angles keep the central characters perpetually at risk from the swirling variety of passersby in the bustling capital city.

Contributing to the many intrigues in the narrative are Jason Bateman’s amusingly unsavory political fixer and PR specialist, Dominic Foy, and Jeff Daniels’ sinister schemer, Representative George Fergus, who advises Collins to lie low for the sake of the young congressman’s political ambitions.

Nonetheless, it is Mr. Crowe who lends State of Play a sense of perpetual urgency as he traverses the corridors of power in search of massive wrongdoing at the risk of his own life. His is an idealized portrait of a Washington journalist, to be sure, but he remains thoroughly credible as a passionate truth-seeker even when he is pitted against evil forces lurking at the highest levels of power and influence.

I have been following Mr. Crowe’s career ever since his 1991 supporting stint in Jocelyn Moorhouse’s Proof. Now in his mid-40s, Mr. Crowe may be in his prime. The only question is whether his offscreen shenanigans can keep him from getting all the good roles he deserves. As it is, he stands out as one of the greatest performing talents of the past two decades

asarris@observer.com

State of Play is the latest incoherently written, mass-entertainment gibberish by the overrated Tony Gilroy. Two other writers share the credit, but the movie implodes bearing the burden of the same smart-aleck Gilroy trademarks as Michael Clayton, Duplicity and all those incomprehensible Bourne identities, supremacies and ultimatums: glam stars spouting corny dialogue, current events shrouded in enough violence and sex to keep the audience awake and labored plot twists hammered to death by a storm of clichés. None of it makes any sense, but people go away from this kind of formulaic gumbo smiling. “Of course it collapses under close scrutiny,” said one critic leaving the screening I attended, “but it’s fun.” So is the kind of mustard-splattered chili dog that leads to acid reflux.

Melding journalism, politics and big business, the plot is a din of babble that begins with the death of a sexy head researcher working for ambitious Congressman Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck), who is investigating Defense Department outsourcing in Iraq and Afghanistan and war profiteering by a private security company called Pointcorps (think Halliburton) that is bidding billions of dollars for a contract to control Homeland Security. Stay with me. It gets worse. Across town from the Congressional hearings, at a major Washington, D.C., newspaper, sits Russell Crowe, a fat, hairy, unshaven and unhealthy-looking slob who looks like something that just crawled out of a cave. He is Cal McAffrey, a renegade reporter who puts two and two together and discovers that the dead girl was the congressman’s drug-loving mistress and a double agent working for Pointcorps. Linking her death to two other murders on the same day, he gradually unravels a swampy jumble of a scandal that makes the congressman a media target. This gets edgy, see, because the congressman and the creepy reporter used to be college roommates and best friends. With three dozen hungry reporters hounding him, Representative Collins camps out at the reporter’s apartment. (Yeah, fat chance, and with three you get eggroll.) Thickening the preposterous brew, McAffrey is saddled with a perky, pretty cub reporter (Rachel McAdams) who tracks down facts he’s trying to keep out of the paper, and Collins’ humiliated wife (a wasted Robin Wright Penn) is recruited to clean up his reputation with the public. The reporter is torn between loyalty to an old friend and the need to stop corporate and government perversion, and a mannish editor named Cameron Lynne (Helen Mirren) cusses like a drunken sailor and holds up the front page for four hours so her reporters can find the killer and solve the murders on their own. The congressman commits political suicide for the common good, but this movie is not over yet. There’s still the obligatory chase in the dark underground parking garage to endure—not to mention fund-raisers, cocktail parties, people thrown to their deaths from subway platforms, assorted flawed politicians, hidden agendas, split personalities and a ballet at the Kennedy Center. When it finally grinds to a halt after 127 minutes of Cuisinart confusion, you go away muttering, “Huh?”

The funniest thing in the movie is the way it depicts newspapers as sexy, exciting places to solve murder mysteries, meet girls and ignore things like dwindling circulation, fact checking and meeting deadlines. It’s hard to believe Tony Gilroy is the son of the great Pulitzer Prize winner Frank Gilroy, who wrote The Subject Was Roses and knew a few things about logic, psychology, trenchant narrative harmony and believable character development that he failed to pass on to his son. The director is Kevin Macdonald, whose debut feature The Last King of Scotland was a much better film. This one has pace and the actors hold your attention, although Russell Crowe looks like he’s been living the same offscreen life as Mickey Rourke.

rreed@observer.com

Newspapers and magazines are closing; the ones that remain grow thinner by the week as if somehow cursed; freelance budgets are being slashed and staffers accustomed to taking it easy are being forced to write like their livelihoods depend on it. (Hint: They do.) The only thing worse than losing one of the few, cramped spots in a magazine's well is losing it to a celebrity—you know, the kind of person who thinks it's fun to bang out a story while nibbling Cornichons from an Endeavor gift basket in their trailer or on their iPhone from the limo on the way to the Golden Globes.

Take the new issue of Rolling Stone, which sports a cover of Lil Wayne sure to cause nightmares in the late life miracle babies of the magazine's aging Boomer readers. Should you make it past that cover—but go boldly or he'll open his eyes like the Sphinx Gate from The Neverending Story and you shall perish—you'll find an eleven page story (fourteen if you include three full pages of photos) about Kris Kristofferson by actor-director-author Ethan Hawke, who went from RS cover boy to contributor in 14 short years.

What's amazing about the piece is that it's... actually kind of amazing. Mr. Hawke, who wrote the novels The Hottest State and Ash Wednesday, does a pretty good job capturing Mr. Kristofferson in "The Last Outlaw Poet" (which is not online, but you can enjoy its accompanying "online exclusive" playlist), whom he describes as "cut from a thicker, more intricate cloth than most celebrities today."

Mr. Hawke continues:

Imagine if Brad Pitt had also written a Number One single for someone like Amy Winehouse, was considered among the finest songwriters of his generation, had been a Rhodes scholar, a U.S. Army Airborne Ranger, a boxer, a professional helicopter pilot—and was as politically outspoken as Sean Penn. That's what a motherfuckin' badass Kris Kristofferson was in 1979.

While you contemplate that, let's take a look at Messrs. Pitt and Penn, since, as coincidence would have it, both of them have been playing journalist lately, too.

In September, Mr. Pitt wrote a short article for Vanity Fair about Human Rights Watch. (The article was headlined Thunder on the Rights.) Mr. Pitt also wrote his own Esquire profile in 2006. (Talk about cutting out the middle man.) When not writing, Mr. Pitt is snapping pictures, as he did for the cover of W's 'Art Issue' in November 2008. That cover featured a very intimate photo of Mr. Pitt's partner, Angelina Jolie, breast-feeding. Now that's what we call access!

Mr. Penn had the December 15th cover story of The Nation, which had him interviewing Hugo Chávez and Raúl Castro. He's also filed reports from Iraq and Iran for The San Francisco Chronicle. Mr. Penn's Nation story was particularly annoying to The New Yorker's George Packer, who asked in December on his 'Interesting Times' blog:

Why does someone like Penn think he can do this job, which isn’t his job? Perhaps because he can write down and relay the words of famous people to whom his own fame gives him access, and because certain thoughts pass through his mind while he’s writing them down. Penn’s moonlighting shows a kind of contempt for journalism, which turns out to be rather difficult to do well.

Of course, magazines have always called upon celebrities to write tributes to other celebrities using their own fame to gain access. But unlike the editors of Interview setting up a conference call between, say, Mickey Rourke and Christopher Walken and editing together the transcript (which is how we presume most of these things are done), or The New York Times Magazine asking Catherine Keener to say a few nice words in print about Kat Denning, Mr. Hawke's profile represents the handing over of a significant chunk of editorial real estate that might've otherwise been occupied by the work of—what were those people called back when the existed?—a journalist. (Do we even need to mention all the celebrities and demi-celebrities blogging on The Huffington Post—that means you, John Cusack!—taking away space from the Mayhill Fowlers of the world?)

Which is not to say Mr. Hawke does a bad job. Far from it. That's what's so scary about the rise of the celebrity journalism dilettantes. For a working hack—that word is used here without judgment—it's hard enough to get a pitch accepted by an editor (much less an 11-page evergreen on a 72-year-old who's in not in the Jonas Brothers). But now you gotta compete with writers editors think are cooler, better connected, and who don't even need the money.

This situation may get worse before it gets better. In an article from this weekend's New York Times 'Arts & Leisure' section about the Hollywood remake of the BBC journalism-themed thriller State of Play, Chip McGrath quoted the film's director, Kevin McDonald saying this about star Russell Crowe:

'The great thing about Russell is that he's so unvain. I explained to him that this guy is a bit of a schlub, a bit of a loser, he lives in the kind of apartment where you would never have people over, and Russell got that right away.'

'The interesting thing,' he added, 'is that Russell had such contempt for the press to begin with. He hates reporters. It took him a while to acknowledge that there could be such a thing as journalists who were idealistic and incorruptible.'

Coming soon, Russell Crowe, ace reporter? What's a real writer to do? Sign up for The Actors Studio?

Tuesday: Proof of Life
Long before Tony Gilroy was a purveyor of adult-minded dramatics like Michael Clayton and Duplicity, he was a screenwriter-for-hire who wrote everything from the cheesy (The Cutting Edge) to the outstanding (The Bourne Identity). So on the list of Mr. Gilroy’s credits, Proof of Life sits somewhere in the middle. The Taylor Hackford-directed kidnapping drama is probably most remembered for the offscreen affair that blossomed between stars Russell Crowe and Meg Ryan, but we are always shocked at how much the film mirrors Casablanca. There’s Russell-as-Bogie, Meg-as-Ingrid and a shockingly bouncy and invested David Caruso in the Claude Rains role, stealing every scene out from under his more accomplished co-stars. [Action Max, 8:20 a.m.]

Wednesday: Pearl Jam: Ten Revisited
Ready to feel old? On Tuesday, last-grunge-band-standing Pearl Jam will reissue their 12-million-selling debut album Ten as the start of a two-year catalogue rerelease program that leads up to the band’s 20th anniversary in 2011. This special, which premiered on VH1 over the weekend, takes a look back at the making of that album, and the band, with the depth and breadth of a Wikipedia entry. But once you hear the opening chords of “Alive”, we guarantee you'll pull your old flannel shirts out of storage and rock along. [VH1, 11 a.m.]

Thursday: In the Motherhood
Another week, another ABC sit-com. After the lukewarm premiere of Better Off Ted, the network trots out In the Motherhood, a new comedy based on the popular Web series of the same name. Whether or not In the Motherhood is likely to succeed is certainly up for debate (put us on the “not succeed” side of the ledger), but what we cannot understand is why ABC felt the need to recast the show. Stars Cheryl Hines and Megan Mullally are funny, but the trio of mothers in the Web incarnation—Leah Remini, Chelsea Handler and Jenny McCarthy, respectively—seem like money in the bank. Oh, well. We can always watch their version on YouTube. [ABC, 8 p.m.]

Friday: Major League
It wouldn’t be spring without our yearly viewing of Major League. As much as we love the stuffy elegance of The Natural and Field of Dreams, this is our favorite baseball movie, one that perfectly encapsulates what the sport is all about—the importance of team chemistry. The players in Major League are mishmash group of drunks, womanizers, has-beens, convicts and religious fanatics. And yet they still band together to win it all… as a team. Something tells us this movie doesn’t get a lot of play in the Yankees clubhouse. [Cinemax, 8 p.m.]