That '70s Drift, Part I: A Long Way, Maybe

BATTLE OF THE SEXES (B+) - One of the duties of a middle-aged man is to occasionally assure his mother that the world isn't going all to hell. Last November 9th, on the phone to my mom, I was at a loss for words.

We are moving through a phase of exposing, once again, the sexually predatory ways of the unyielding white male authoritarian structure -- in news (Ailes), politics (Trump), and entertainment (Weinstein) -- that seems to thrive and morph like a drug-resistant bug. How could 62 million people, including establishment Republicans and self-professed Christians, look the other way and sneak into the White House the poster child for male-chauvinist pigs? A desperate thirst for power is always the default answer.

But who could not be haunted by the sight of a horrible brute looming behind Hillary Clinton at that debate like a stalker or worse. The bullies have retaken the reins of power.

Reading the recent obituary of Kate Millett, I was reminded of the long slog of sexual politics and was tossed back to the second wave during the turbulent '70s. Was that the beginning of an endless historical loop? In that context, what a lark it was when Billie Jean King played a tennis match against the boorish huckster Bobby Riggs, a made-for-TV "Battle of the Sexes" that is lovingly re-enacted in this quaint but moving nostalgic romp.

I saw this movie with my mom, who was on the last full day of her annual visit, having spent the previous weekend attending the semifinals and finals of the Albuquerque stop on the sparsely attended professional women's tennis tournament. Our respective obsessions -- tennis and movies -- came together on a rainy afternoon. Two hours together in a dark screening room was preferable to trying to explain again how a qualified though deeply flawed woman was destroyed by a relentless media campaign and a wild spasm of the venerable power structure.

Instead, there is Emma Stone, with the talent to not only carry a film these days but to elevate it, donning the wire-rimmed spectacles and the frumpy shag hairdo of the 29-year-old King, as she not only sticks her neck out to prove a cultural point but also challenges the old-boy network by forming a union of female players and helping launch the Virginia Slims tournament. As early as 1967, she was critical of the United States Lawn Tennis Association for its shady dealings, and by 1973, she had convinced her colleagues to break away for their own circuit and had shamed the U.S. Open into awarding equal payouts to the winner of its annual tournament. Here that stuffy old-boy network is personified by the smug Jack Kramer, perfectly oiled by character actor Bill Pullman.

Valerie Faris and Jonathan Dayton, the former music-video directors who splashed in 2006 with "Little Miss Sunshine," take a script from Simon Beaufoy ("The Full Monty," "Slumdog Millionaire") and dip it in amber and avocado green tones to craft a faithful period piece (down to the retro Fox studio marker at the beginning of the film). The movie looks and feels like it was shot in the shadowy '70s, which at times makes it feel alternatively authentic and like a cutesy conceit.

Stone dives deep into her character, exploring the personal demons of a closeted bisexual and showing enough athletic ability to not embarrass herself. (When the big match finally arrives, Faris and Dayton render it wonderfully.) In this version, King falls for a carefree hairdresser named Marilyn (Andrea Riseborough, "Birdman"), whose presence on the tour becomes an open secret for the married King. They have a winning chemistry without letting the weight of the relationship weigh down the movie.

Stone goes up against Steve Carell, whose natural smarm serves him well and makes him tolerable, like he was in "Foxcatcher." Carell's Riggs is a pathetic old man whose shtick has worn thin, both personally and professionally. Carell is always much better when he's not trying to be a cut-up, and here he reveals Riggs in layers, never quite tipping into syrupy pathos.

A secret weapon here is the supporting cast. Sarah Silverman hams it up as chain-smoking Gladys Heldman, who secured the Philip Morris sponsorship for the Virginia Slims tour. She slings one-liners all around, the sharpest ones reserved for Pullman, with classic movie-of-the-week cheekiness. Alan Cumming lights up the screen as Ted Tingling, the sassy designer of King's attire. Elisabeth Shue doesn't have much to do as Riggs' frustrated wife, but just a sprinkling of her talent is welcome, especially sporting that tanned Ethel Kennedy glow. Mickey Sumner ("Frances Ha") and Bridey Elliott ("Fort Tilden") pop in the background as regular players on the tour. Fred Armisen ("Band Aid") plays it mostly straight as Riggs' health guru, which I'm convinced is Armisen's subtle in-joke.

This ensemble effort makes the production pleasing and not too full of itself. Faris and Dayton revel, like kids, in the opportunity to re-create the America of their teen years. They seamlessly insert player/commentator Rosie Casals (Natalie Morales) into a TV image with the real Howard Cosell's arm draped around her. They relish Riggs' publicity stunts. They construct ominous wood-paneled sanctums where Kramer and his henchman plot the pompous pronouncements of the patriarchy.

It's all packaged as a slick two-hour window into a seemingly more innocent past. Or were those the good old days?