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Spellbound
(2002)
Dir: Jeffery Blitz
A friend of mine summed up this powerhouse documentary, saying something to the effect of, “by the end, we were cheering like it was the Super Bowl, and we gave a fuck about football.” I second that emotion. However, Pro Football, Hockey, Rugby, even Heavyweight Boxing, all pale in comparison to the intensity of the battle for the ultimate scholastic prize--Victor of the National Spelling Bee. Any pussy can work out, bench press, sprint, hit somebody, or slide into home plate, but could you spell, vivisepulture, on command without bursting into tears while the world watches on in hushed tones? I didn’t think so.
The Game: slaughter by dictionary, at the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee. The Athletes: a pretentious equestrian, a potential sociopath, a word nerd, a hyperactive freak, a Mexican immigrant, two way-too-dedicated Indian kids (dots not feathers), and a most likeable little sass-pot from the urban ghetto. The Trainers: legal guardians, some of whom make the obsessive parents of youth chess tournaments (a la Searching For Bobby Fischer) seem docile. The Stakes: if one letter gets, let’s just say, “verbally misaligned,” you go home; a loser. The Intensity: as if humiliation in front of a few thousand people weren’t enough, the 5th round brings in the camera crews from ESPN to broadcast nationally--complete with “spellers to keep your eye on,” commentary and stats, from actual sportscasters. Film Highlights Worthy of Instant Replay: Of her competition in the regionals, one local champ sums up the loser’s skills noting, “He was a fast speller, he didn’t like definitions.” Loose cannon. One Bee Mom justifies her role in taking care of the mundane details so her kid can study, saying, “When you’re fighting a war, everyone has the same goal.” Take no prisoners. A father breaks from his rapid-fire, words-to-spell onslaught, to tell his son, “You’ve done 4,000 words and you’ve had one mistake, you’re doing good now.” Thanks Dad. Finally, in her most grammatically coherent statement of the interview (following words like: publici-sizin’ and pestimistically), one mother states, “for $10,000, I’d spell every word in the dictionary.” Try it bitch, I dare you. The Only Thing That’s Missing: Foam fingers with shit like ‘staphylococci’ and ‘euonym’ printed on them… I am however submitting that one to the Scripps Howard suggestion box.
In the heat of competition, when the there-goes-your-future bell rings, the blood drains from the dazed athletes faces, and they wander off the stage--it’s hard not to picture them washed up, on some dated worn sofa, with a beer in their hand, talking about the glory days, and what might have been, had they not screwed up on, palimpsest. Pa·limp·sest (pal’imp sest’) n. a parchment or the like from which writing has been partly or completely erased to make room for another text. Defined in layman’s terms: get the fuck off the mic to clear the way for the next victim. Winning teams come and go, a dime a dozen, but in the world of championship spelling, think in terms of The Highlander, after the smoke clears and the cameras flash, there can be … only one.
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