My colleague Richard Corliss once dismissed the film Field of Dreams in these pages as "the male weepie at its wussiest." I couldn't agree more, and yet I sobbed when I first saw Field of Dreams in a theater in 1989; I sobbed again when I recently saw it on videotape, especially during the final scene, when Kevin Costner finally gets to play catch with his long-dead father. Watching this, I felt like the subject of an Oliver Sacks case study: I wanted to laugh derisively, of course, but the film somehow circumvented the part of my brain that controls critical...
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