This week in TReelville: An American Tail

Everyone loved “An American Tail” when they were little. It’s been awhile, but you probably remember Fievel. You probably remember hysterically sobbing to the song “Somewhere Out There.” You probably don’t remember Communists prosecuting Jews. Watch it again.

It’s actually a thinly disguised allegory for Jewish oppression in Soviet Russia. Gather the kids!

Fievel’s last name is Mousekewitz, a traditional Jewish surname. He and his family live in Shostka, Russia, where the cats hate Jews. So they decide to go to America because they are told “there are no cats in America.” But here’s the deal: There are cats in America.

Apart from questionable representations of Jews as rats coming to infiltrate New York by the boatload, this movie has some issues.

There’s a certain amount of jingoism and stereotyping that would seem more appropriate in a Disney film, but Walt Disney’s zombie corpse would be damned if it let some Jew be the hero of his movie. Real mice are Nazis. Just look at Mickey and Minnie’s lighter in the 1932 Disney short “The Wayward Canary.”

Obviously, the cats in “An American Tail” are the godless Soviets. They’re lurking in the American shadows, waiting to steal your vote and your freedom.

This movie was released in 1986, before Reagan karate-chopped the Berlin Wall down. Theoretically, the Cold War was still going on, and we wanted our children to grow up hating every pussy [cat] pinko who wanted to nuke our babies.

If that was the point of “An American Tail,” it failed. But, in fairness, that probably wasn’t the point. The point was that America is awesome. And if you’re ever a lost child in New York City, talk to as many strangers as possible. Eventually, an eccentric Frenchman will bathe you and sing to you.

This week in TReelville: “Big Fan”

There’s an old prescription that says you shouldn’t talk about politics, religions or sports when you’re drunk. The reason being that people care about those topics so much that they’re willing to die for them, at least religion. In “Big Fan,” Paul Aufiero (played by Patton Oswalt) and his best friend Sal (played by Kevin Corrigan) conflate this list. They are willing to die for their religion, but their altar is Giants Stadium.

Oswalt has made a name as an alternative stand-up comedian who makes obscure nerdy references. This was his first attempt at dramatic acting – “The King of Queens” doesn’t count – and he performs well. It’s probably because his obsessions with comic books and sci-fi aren’t that different from the obsessions of football acolytes. Sports fanatics just get a free pass. The phrase “sports nerd” feels oxymoronic.

Somewhere along the marketing line, “Big Fan” got mischaracterized as a black comedy. It’s not dark like “Happiness,” and there’s only a modicum of overt humor. Despite some funny moments – Paul’s man-child life serves as a perpetual joke – this movie is mostly an odd reflection on the life of a football fanatic.

There’s a difference between fandom and fanaticism. Fans cheer on their favorite teams. Fanatics post Craigslist ads for a “well-maintained, larger than average” left testicle in exchange for Super Bowl tickets.

“Big Fan” explores the fanatics. Paul and Sal go to every New York Giants home-game. They put on jerseys, tailgate and raucously yell for big plays.

But they’re not actually in the stadium. They’re watching in the parking lot on a TV hooked up to a car battery.

Paul, in his mid-30s, is broke and still lives with his mom. He works the graveyard shift as a parking lot attendant so he can listen to sports radio all night. He composes his thoughts for hours, writing and revising on a tablet, and then calls a local station to give his “impromptu” takes. Sal listens from his house and calls Paul to ask how Paul can speak so eloquently – usually Paul’s jeremiads revolve around epithets for Eagles fans – and Paul basks in his undeserved praise. Then he masturbates, goes to sleep and does it all again the next night. Football, football, football, coitus, sleep — and he’s probably thinking about football during the last two, as well.

This is Paul’s life.

It’s empty, but he’s happy, employed and harmless. He even has companionship in Sal. Paul is only hampered by a family who wants to push their traditional values onto him.

However, this prism shifts when, at a gas station, Paul and Sal randomly see their favorite player, fictional Giants quarterback Quantrell Bishop (QB, get it?). Instead of just saying “Hi,” or asking for an autograph, they stalk Bishop and his entourage throughout New York’s boroughs, eventually landing in a Manhattan strip club.

Inevitably, Bishop stomps in Paul’s face when he finds out about the tail. But when Bishop gets suspended, Paul blames himself. With a shiner and head trauma, he defends Bishop’s actions on talk radio. He refuses to sue. Even Bishop’s eventual return to the field — Paul lies to police so they can’t proceed with a criminal case — is sullied by a poor performance. “He was rusty,” Paul says, hating himself.

The mindset portrayed in “Big Fan” is sick, but it shouldn’t seem alien to anyone living in Pittsburgh.

This movie shows the effects of personalizing sports. Like many Steelers fanatics, Paul and Sal aren’t participants, but rather frenzied spectators.

The reflection is at once pitiful and disgusting. They aren’t good at anything else — maybe because they’ve never tried — so they pour themselves into a fantasy world. They have nothing to offer, so they cling to the accomplishments of others.

This is the difference between fans and fanatics. Fans can use sports as a way to relate to others, maybe even a way to lift others up through coaching or mentoring. They have a sense of connection to their own community and their own independence.

Fanatics memorize statistics that don’t have any bearing on their lives, their moods alter based on wins and losses, they hate opposing teams – maybe they throw coins at coaches – and they think their hoots have some impact on game outcomes. When Paul is talking to Sal about an upcoming game, he says, “There’s no way we can lose, not with us in the parking lot.”

“We.”

Paul doesn’t actually contribute to the Giants, unless you count all the paraphernalia he buys. It's participation through consumption. Of course, this happens in other societal sections. Sports, though, is the only sub-sect in which this behavior is encouraged.

Only the sports realm celebrates this type of fanaticism – costumes, face paint, tribalism, collective song-singing, parasocial relations and mood swings at the end of the show. This behavior would be considered insane elsewhere, or pathetic at best. Fanaticism in areas that aren’t sports is ridiculed (i.e. comic-book geeks, Dead Heads and avid gamers).

Pittsburgh is home to this split.

Steelers fanatics fit in. And they expect you to be in their cult. While I was walking on Bates Street one night, during a game, a porch-sitter yelled, “Where are your colors!? Do you know what town you’re in!?” This is normal here. It's even expected.

Yet, AnthroCon – aka the Furry Convention – is held in Pittsburgh every year, and met with the same derision every time. Furries dress up like their favorite anthropomorphized animals, talk about Furry trivia and immerse themselves in a fictional world that they can’t actually participate in.

They probably deserve some mockery. But sport fanatics aren’t different, there are just more of them.

While "Big Fan" is not “Death to Smoochy” or “Blue Velvet,” you should check it out to witness these superficial distinctions. If you can’t, though, just walk into any Pittsburgh bar for the Steelers’ opening game. You’ll get the idea.

Next week: Weird love (a St. Valentine’s Day hodge-podge)