Directed by Patrick Creadon

Matt Cale loves the language

Obsessions are far from the sole province of nerds, shut-ins, and savants, but they are curiously alienating when shouted in public by those lacking even the slightest semblance of social skills. You know the type -- bearded, wide-eyed fanatics who bend your ear with piercing tones and splatter your face with sour spit while relating the contents of their grocery cart or feces-ridden dwellings that may or may not house equally blitzed, fossilized mothers now confined to dirty chairs and ratty bathrobes. And if they do happen to live somewhat normal lives – holding jobs, speaking without glaring at the ground, or even managing intercourse with a sentient being -- they are still quite unapproachable, as if at any given moment, their arm will swing forward, the breathing become labored, and the dialogue turn to esoteric indulgences few would comprehend. At least that’s the stereotype. But we all have passions that would shock other, equally passionate individuals, and only an unseen force has seen fit to determine what is acceptable and what is bordering on madness. Feverish exercise, for example, is seen as “good health,” yet spending untold hours in a gym is no less pathetic and narrow than he who stares at a chess board or toothpick collection for the same duration. Caring about sports, or clothing, or even fine wines to the point of mania is rarely ridiculed, and is just as often endorsed by the larger culture. But suddenly, when the activity or hobby turns inward or solitary, it is assumed that the rubber room is just around the corner.

Patrick Creadon’s stellar documentary Wordplay is a tale of this unique brand of freak; the sort of person who will sit all day, pen in hand, and examine boxes, letters, and clues with all the focus of a man seeking high adventure. Crossword puzzles are the lonely man’s labor; teasing, clever, and always a bit nutty, they challenge the player to flex his intellectual muscle in ways few games ever approach. One must have a command of the language, a familiarity with obscure idioms and puns, and even be in touch with the popular culture, not something we usually associate with pasty virgins. For a game, then, it is pure skill, unlike the more popular Texas Hold ‘Em poker, which has taken the country by storm, if only because most Americans seem to sprout hard-ons at the sight of macho dickheads pushing hundreds of thousands of dollars before their opponent like some new twist on a high noon showdown. Some strategy is claimed, but from my seat, all I see is someone bellowing “all in” on a worthless hand just to see if the nitwit across the table has the stones to do likewise. More often than not, a simple, boring pair wins the day, and the crowd has mistakenly assumed that they have witnessed a true blood sport. And these same participants and fans would mock the very idea of a crossword puzzle championship, even though the winner is always decided by raw ability, rather than the luck of the draw. If you lose, it’s because your mind couldn’t penetrate the riddle, not because you ran out of cash.

And so we follow several of the would-be champions, including a 20-year-old college student who appears to be in a fraternity, but the sort of brotherhood that fails to include a single sister in any of its late-night bull sessions. It’s fine by me, though, as he’ll have plenty of opportunity to purchase choice cuts of vagina after he gets a better job than most of us could ever imagine. That’s always the geek’s revenge. Pussy is fine and dandy as a young man, but I’ve yet to meet a clitoris that would balance my checkbook. Each time we visit with these fierce competitors (including a lone woman, who claims to have had a boyfriend at some time in her past), we are quick to judge, of course, but even I can admit that I’m jealous first and foremost of a sharp mind, even if its primary focus is memorizing each and every character ever featured in Tolkein. Hell, these dudes are me, only I’ve never actually won anything. Who am I kidding; I’ve never even signed up. As such, these people are doing what they love and never giving up, which is more than I can say for myself. If I struggle for but a moment, I’m apt to take a nap and curse the attempt.

Genuine drama is created by these competitions, and despite the occasional hyena laugh or embarrassingly bad stab at humor, these are genuinely good people, more so because they don’t give a shit about their inferiors. And yes, most will be decidedly inferior to these folks, as they have gifts few would ever hope to attain in a dozen lifetimes. More than that, though, they have learned to love words; they use them with care and respect, and always know that the most stinging poverty is not a lack of cash, but lacking an effective and original manner by which to communicate. When most grunt, whine, and mutter through their days, using the same shopworn phrases and clichés to reach some sort of begrudging consensus, the crossword fanatics of Wordplay are able to penetrate the human experience with joy and wisdom. Nerds they may be, but unhappy or dull they’re not. In fact, I’d argue that every man or woman not “blessed” with the societal norms of attractiveness is, in the long run, a better person to have in your corner. That said, I’d be the first to say I’d rather stare at a firm rack over dinner than pretend to care if Picard might in fact have kicked Kirk’s ass in the Triskelion arena.

We also meet Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, Bob Dole, Ken Burns, the Indigo Girls, and other crossword fanatics who spend at least part of their day staring at that familiar configuration. Will Shortz, the current editor of the New York Times crossword page, is arguably the most admired man in this group, and when we meet him we can understand why. To write this sort of thing day in and day out without losing one’s creative edge (or even getting repetitive) is striking indeed, and akin to churning out a catchy tune every twenty-four hours. As there always seems to be a theme to these puzzles, it takes more than brain power to keep readers intrigued for years at a stretch. And the public is so devoted, in fact, that Shortz gets more fan mail than the average rock star, complete with declarations of kinship and even the occasional threat. You may run into my car, cut me off, spill coffee on my new shirt, and even overcharge me for dinner, but don’t fuck with my daily crossword. For some, as we learn, it’s the only thing that makes any sense during the course of their day. There’s an odd perfection to the crossword, as if entering a world with predictability and well-defined rules, but one that takes more than a bit of ingenuity to bring to its conclusion. This supremely entertaining documentary brings all of that out -- the personalities, the weirdos, the lifestyle, and the psychology -- but never at the expense of the devoted. They might not spice up your dinner party, but they’re doing just fine.