Christopher Schroeder

Category: community and culture

  • A Money-Hungry MLB

    Major League Baseballs reminded me again at the start of spring training this year how much more it cares about money than fans.

    It notified me last week that MLB at Bat, which is its online radio subscription, was now called MLB+. It also indicated that the annual cost had been doubled.

    I have always been ambivalent about this service. However, I cannot get a good AM radio signal in the building where I live, cannot find an online radio stream that isn’t substantially delayed, and am not always within the broadcast area or even near a radio.

    For these reasons, I had been reluctantly spending about thirty dollars each season, or about five dollars a month, to stream the Cubs radio broadcasts, and to listen to Pat and Ron without trouble, anywhere I was. Why not spend a little to avoid complicating one of the perennial joys of life?

    This answer was complicated by this notification from MLB. The online renewal price, which I checked after receiving this news, was still the same as it was last year, so I called MLB customer service.

    The rep insisted that MLB hadn’t actually doubled the price — it technically had more than doubled it, I guess, but why would he highlight that? — and reported that it hadn’t added any features or services.

    This rep claimed he would disable my auto-renew, but I thought I already had done that. I then also removed my credit card and deleted my account.

    MLB wants its radio subscribers to spend twice as much for the same service. This one hundred percent increase moreover is happing at a time that many are predicting a lockout after this season as owners and players squabble over a salary cap, especially after the Dodgers signed Kyle Tucker in the offseason and continue spending for a three-peat.

    Such disregard for fans isn’t new. Major league baseball for example has had nine strikes or lockouts since 1972. The longest, which occurred in 1994-1995, canceled 938 games, and the entire 1994 postseason. The most recent, which happened in 2021-2022, didn’t cancel any games but delayed the 2022 opening day.

    This disregard appears in other ways. For example, the Chicago Cubs and the Chicago White Sox have their own sports networks, and now charge local fans who want to watch games from the comfort of their living rooms, which many previously had done on free television, about twenty dollars a month.

    Neither even offers good reasons for such expenses. The Cubs have lost the division title to the rivals Brewers or Cardinals, who play in smaller markets, for the last five seasons. The Sox have lost over one hundred games for the last three.

    The problem is that enough fans will likely spend for the radio and television subscriptions, and the tickets, concessions, and merchandise. Such expenses, whatever the costs, seem especially appealing in the middle of February.

    I however might have an alternative this season. One of my kids recently gave me a solar-or-crank-powered portable radio with an extendable antenna. With it, I might be able to find a crackly yet discernible sound of the play-by-play from Hall-of-Famer Pat Hughes, who will begin his forty-third season calling Cubs games, and his most recent partner, and former Cub from the metro-Chicago area, Ron Coomer.

    I gotta get cranking, and searching for the strongest signals. Spring training games start tomorrow.

  • Unto Ourselves?

    The movie Islands, which was written by Jan-Ole Gerster, Blaž Kutin, and Lawrie Doran, is an engaging exploration of appearance, reality, and aloneness that never quite coalesces into clear conclusions.

    Tom (Sam Riley), a former tennis pro and current resort coach, has an apparently ideal life at least to Canary Islands tourists. The sun is constant, his obligations are limited, and even these can be avoided when he wants. Nevertheless, he suspects that something is missing, especially when a local family, with whom he has become friends, announces their imminent retirement, and return to their former homeland.

    Tom soon befriends a family on holiday, who also have their own needs. They’re struggling with infertility, and perhaps infidelity, and as a result questioning their choices, including their marriage. A second child seems to be Ann’s (Stacy Martin) answer, but her husband Dave (Jack Farthing) is less certain of what they’re doing and who they are.

    Tom agrees to escort Dave to a nearby club where he disappears. Any uncertainty Tom might have been feeling evaporates as he assists with the search for the missing husband, who had disclosed his suicidal intention to Ann. Tom later supplies a false, and unsolicited, alibi for, and subsequently has sex with, her.

    Dave, dehydrated and exhausted, is eventually found while swimming toward a volcano where he intended to throw himself over its crater. Tom and Ann have a moment in the hospital just before she returns to Dave’s side. Tom then returns to his previous life, and recreates a former moment of glory on the courts for the latest group of mouthy, boisterous tourists.

    There he passes out, and is found by Dave, who has brought the payment for his son Anton’s tennis lessons and some additional money for Tom’s efforts, including Dave tells him caring for his family. Tom in other words is still hired help whereas Dave, Ann, and their son are returning to their own lives.

    Audiences are to be attracted to Tom’s experience, which has the outward appearance of Eden or heaven. The sun is constantly shining. His responsibilities are minimal, especially when he can eat and stay at the resort when he wants. He has a constant churn of female companionship and court-mates.

    This movie succeeds as a psychological thriller, and also explores an almost palpable loneliness in all of their lives. Moreover, it suggests that Tom’s desperation isn’t as much malicious as perhaps opportunistic, which makes it all the more poignant.

    The ambiguity almost seems borderline excessive, but the only obviously false moment is the conclusion. Tom back in his own apartment is eating the cereal he purchased for Anton when he swipes his wallet and keys and then races to the airport. Once there, he asks if he can still purchase a ticket, which he can, and then is asked to where.

    Perhaps he intends to follow this family although that seems less likely than the possibility that he could be fleeing from his unsatisfying life. The details however are wrong. He seems not to have a passport for example perhaps because he in his haste left it at home.

    The bigger problem is the emotional resources he will need to leave. Are audiences to think that he is ultimately incapable of escaping as his camel-farm friends did? Or that Tom has acted rashly again?

    Even his front desk friend has had enough of his shenanigans. Has he learned anything from escaping his self-manufactured legal jeopardy?

    Is his motivation even the point? Perhaps not, the title seems to suggest. Maybe all of us in contrast to the line from the John Donne poem are islands unto ourselves, and perhaps forever are so.

    That could be the conclusion of this movie. All the ambiguity while not ruining the experience unfortunately makes that unclear.

  • Theater Today

    I attended the final production of Manual Cinema’s The 4th Witch this past weekend, and was elated at the outset.

    I had forgotten how thrilling live performance can be. I unfortunately had sufficient time throughout the rest of the performance to contemplate the relative absence of theater in my life.

    Its presence dramatically diminished once I left a theater awards organization. For eight years, I had been a theater judge, and was seeing more than one hundred, and sometimes more than two hundred, different productions each year.

    I left the organization as a result of its lack of professionalism, and its resistance to professional development, and its leaders’ lack of integrity and ethics. I was also was concerned about the amount of time that I was spending at less than noteworthy productions, which were hours of our lives another judge reminded me that we’d never get back.

    For the first year or two, I resumed my theater subscriptions, which meant that I was attending fifteen to twenty performances a year. That effectively reduced my attendance rate, which allowed more space and time for other activities, but inadvertently increased the costs, which now included money. A single theater subscription, which could include four, five, or six performances, could cost several hundred dollars a season even for preview performances or midday matinees.

    These increased costs I admit could have highlighted the diminished quality, or could have made it more salient. Such a trend had been evident when I was still a theater judge, especially after the pandemic when theaters rushed to respond to the loudest calls for a more woke world.

    Such calls could have been coming from those who were first to return to theaters, or the ones who most often attended shows. Regardless, these calls seemed to pressure theaters into featuring the same systemic racism themes that had a long presence even before the 2020 “We See You, White American Theater” missive.

    Theater as the most synthetic of art forms has a tradition of featuring such themes, and pushing social and artistic boundaries. Such a tradition is evident in the United States, as illustrated for example in August Wilson’s call for tradition and change, and even here in Chicago, which has made numerous contributions to theater both across the United States and around the world.

    Post-pandemic American theater however seemed more concerned about placating patrons, and in so doing became too timid. Too often, snapping, and easy laughs, rippled across too many darkened theaters in response to one intellectually and emotionally insulting scene after another.

    Most theaters, or at least the ones I had long been attending, seemed to reinforce mainstream liberal mentalities, and to refuse to reckon with the never-been-woke realities of too many social justice initiatives. So I stopped subscribing.

    I still cannot rationalize these costs, especially now that I’m retired. Maybe I wondered this weekend I never will.

    The challenge confronting theaters is to some extent understandable, and a perpetual question in debates about the economics of art. Realistic answers require a careful balance of finances and function.

    Regardless, American theater could confront the political economies of theater today, and rebalance its approach in ways that don’t compromise accessibility and affordability and challenge and change. To this end, Chicago again offers ideas, such as the Hull House approach or the little theater movement in the early twentieth century or the little theater movement soon thereafter to the storefront tradition in the late twentieth- and early twenty-first centuries.

    These and other approaches offer accessible and accountable art, ones that theaters here in Chicago and elsewhere would be wise to consider. And these could mean more thrilling theater for me too.