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The doctor is young, without anything resembling a comforting bedside manner.

“I’m scared,” the patient says. “I know” is all he’s got for her.

But at least he walks her through what he’s doing, step by step.

“You will feel it. And it will hurt a bit.”

And he finishes with a warning. “You can’t make any noise. No matter what.”

Welcome to the late 1960s, when women had to master forging their husband’s signature just to cash a check, when the bright promise of college was typically abandoned for that “Mrs.” degree, and when abortion was illegal, even when the pregnant woman’s life was in imminent peril.

All because a bunch of men — hospital medical boards, the courts, spouses and baby daddies — said so.

“Call Jane” is a moving and surprisingly uplifting period piece about America’s pre-sexual revolution past, a late ’60s story of women who organized to ensure that the most personal and difficult decision many women will ever face was hers to make, with their help.

When all else failed in 1968 Chicago, all that was left was to “Call Jane.”

Director Phyllis Nagy, who scripted “Carol” and directed the chilling “Mrs. Harris” TV movie, brings us a sober, sturdy, well-cast and acted account of life in The Bad Ol’Days, a movie that never forgets it’s entertainment even as it never loses track of the fact that it’s also a “cause.”

Elizabeth Banks plays Joy, an upper middle class Chicago housewife with a loving lawyer-husband (Chris Messina), a daughter who just turned 15 (Grace Edwards) and another baby on the way. But this pregnancy turns deadly when it leads to cardiomyopathy.

The most chilling scene in the film is when she and her husband get to sit in on her hospital’s medical board meeting where they decide her fate, literally a group of 50-70something men who ignore the justifiably-frightened patient right in front of them.

“A healthy baby? That’s it? No regard for her mother?”

The film’s slow first act follows a shellshocked Joy as her “no shortcuts” straight-arrow husband is no help to her as she is forced to pretend to be a suicide risk (“crazy”) to be granted emergency surgery. One of the psychotherapists she who must sign off on that slips her a “plan B” address for a back-alley abortion, and his receptionist throws one more option her way.

“Just fall down a staircase! It worked for me!”

All that horror is build-up to the film’s second most chilling scene, the one related at the beginning of this review. At every turn, Joy finds herself confronted by cavalier men who treat her like a second class citizen and her life as something of little consequence.

But that hand-bill taped to a mailbox in the back alley side of town offers a lifeline.

“Pregnant? Anxious? Call Jane.”

That’s how Joy obtains her illegal abortion. That’s how she’s introduced to the secretive standard operating procedure of this “service” for woman like her. A blind-folded car ride (Wunmi Mosaku plays the Black feminist militant of the team), a clean office, a greedy young doctor and — shockingly — a support group the moment this “twenty minute procedure” is over, reassuring her by telling her everything she needs to know.

“Eat, eat,” the matriarchal Virginia (Sigourney Weaver) barks at her. “Then sleep. And then scram!”

Virginia even makes a follow-up call, checking on the patient. And then a second call comes in — she has a sick driver, here’s the address, and before Joy can blurt much more than “Wait, WHAT?” she’s in — picking up patients, sitting in on the group decisions of who “Jane” can help, making the leap to physically comforting patients and more.

The screenplay by Hayley Schore and Roshan Sethi finds heroism in what these women are doing, and lets their characters see the humor in their primitive times. Women were just starting to wake up to the injustice of their lot. But the ignorance pre-sexual revolution America lived under is nothing but laughable.

“I didn’t even know you could get pregnant like that,” one young patient complains. “I mean, we were standing up!”

The script takes pains to emphasize the “no judgement” credo of this service. Every woman’s story is different, and even the most gullible and “careless” is worthy of empathy.

Little is made of Joy’s concern for what sort of limited horizons her daughter faces in 1968 America, and the domestic strain that came with the feminist revolution is given a glib moment or two. Kate Mara plays a widowed neighbor whom we figure will play a bigger role, but doesn’t.

An explanation of abortion being something women have known about and helped each other with, with or without doctors, throughout history would make some of the directions the story takes go down easier.

But “Call Jane” still manages to get its female empowerment and demystify “the procedure” message across in an affirming, witty way, mostly due to Banks’ ability to make even the most entitled beautiful blonde empathetic and Weaver’s droll mastery of “No nonsense” as a character brand.

There isn’t time to get into the seismic cultural changes that the decade was famous and infamous for — a snippet of “Vietnam,” a hint of the civil rights struggle, a recreation of the protests and riots surrounding Chicago hosting the Democratic National Convention.

But sometimes a single line is all it takes to cover that, and it belongs Virginia, the “Jane” ringleader, a veteran protestor turned hands-on activist who leans into all she’s doing and all she’s done, and speaks with wry candor and hopefulness to Joy’s wide-eyed daughter.

“I’m sorry about the ’60s, kid.”

Rating: R for some language and brief drug use

Cast: Elizabeth Banks, Sigourney Weaver, Chris Messina, Wunmi Mosaku, Cory Michael Smith, Grace Edwards and Kate Mara.

Credits: Directed by Phyllis Nagy, scripted by Hayley Schore and Roshan Sethi. A Roadside Attractions release.

Running time: 2:02

Martin Newell is a cantankerous British musician, singer, songwriter and poet who never quite got over the Dickensian wardrobe excesses of of the post-glam era in pop.

He was in a few bands that never caught on, but he was the sort who cursed and shrugged off that lack of success by continuing to record, putting out new music well into his dotage, mostly on self-produced cassettes recorded in his kitchen.

You can almost guess what came next. This DIY “pop star” became an underground favorite, the darling of the hipster “maker” culture, a guy whose back catalog became a gold — OK silver — mine for a re-release-oriented American record label. And all that happened as he bicycled, bantered and bashed his way towards 70.

Naturally, a documentary about him has to have that same DIY feel, and James Sharp (with producer Jim Larson) cobbled together a film that fits its subject — scruffy, irreverent, peppered with poetry and “jangly” pop not the least bit self-serious.

“‘Ye’can’t polish a turd,’ as they say,” Newell grouses. “But y’can roll it in glitter.”

“The Jangling Man: The Martin Newell Story” is a celebratory bio-doc laced with testimonials to the man’s genius. Dave Gregory from XTC is here, and R. Stevie Moore, Kimberley Rew and members of Newell’s most famous band, Cleaners from Venus. DJs and record producers parse what it is that makes the man special.

“Martin can get more great lines into one song that most people can come up with in a lifetime.”

It’s not like he never had his shot. Newell picked up a guitar at 13, and still plays the Hoffner he bought at 17. He answered an ad, joined a band and became its hair-dyeing “prancing” front man and songwriter. A band, a record deal, another band, a solo deal and on and on it went. At least Mum was pleased that he’d found a job where he could “wear make-up and look peculiar.”

Newell was a fixture of ’70s-80s British TV newscasts, a guy who walked away from “the music business” to become a professional gardener, then came back with a “green tour” — just him an his mandolinist, touring the UK by bike, busking and playing gigs.

Over the years he garnered lots of praise for his pop, and…nothing came of it. But he was making an impression on all these other musicians as “the sort of character you’d want to meet” by attempting a career in music — quirky, intense, offhand, brilliant, living hand-to-mouth decades beyond the point when anyone else would have thrown in the towel and become a gardener.

He was “the guy quite a lot of us would like to be,” one contemporary says with real envy.

And on the way to pop obscurity, he found new attention and fame as a poet. After that, it was just a matter of time before the hipsters discovered Cleaners from Venus and the lyrics that are the envy of his peers.

“I am just a jangling man
Been in the cold too long-along-along

And I live with a Raggedy-Ann
We never had any money, is it really so wrong?”

Still, the film, four years in the making, gets into Martin’s professional history without getting close to the man — a little taste of a misunderstood childhood, almost nothing of his personal life.

The portrait that emerges is not unlike a neutered, now-sober version of Bill Nighy’s aged rocker from “Love, Actually” — cute, a real “musician weirdo,” and worth a listen no matter how old he is.

Rating: unrated, a spot of profanity

Cast: Martin Newell, Dave Gregory, many others.

Credits: Directed by James Sharp. A Captured Tracks release.

Running time: 1:25

The gotchas are grand, the production design creepy and the undead as undead as ever in Indonesian horror maestro Joko Anwar’s “Satan’s Slaves: Communion,” the sequel to his 2017 zombie hit.

The writer-director took care to not forget the fun in this jumpy, jokey follow-up, the first Indonesian film ever made to fit on IMAX screens.

The cursed family of the first is back, chased into a remote, rundown high-rise on the outskirts of Jakarta. But they are, of course, much reduced in number. “Satan’s Slaves” almost halved their number, with factory worker Rini (Tara Basro), her teen brother Toni (Endy Afrian) and younger sibling Bondi (Nassar Annuz) losing a brother, grandmother and the singer-mother who seems to be the font of all their woes.

A deal with the Devil, you say?

A prologue re-introduces journalist turned “Supernatural Magazine” publisher Budiman (Egy Fedly) and tells us how he crossed over into his specialty, stumbling into the undead way back in 1955.

The “present” here is April of 1984, and our embattled, on the lam family may know there’s always trouble close by. But everybody else in the Mandora apartments is in the dark, soon quite literally as a storm bears down and floods all around them and knocks out the power.

Things start to go wrong before the first rain drop falls. And thanks to some heavy-handed foreshadowing, we know better that to get into that damned elevator.

Anwar stages his first set piece in that over-crowded lift, imperiling not just the people riding in it, but the children who jump into the ground-flood shaft to pick up coins they see have collected there thanks to an accidental door-opening.

The bodies from this debacle are prepared by their families — or other observant Muslims in the building — and lie in their apartments awaiting funerals that will have to wait until the storm passes.

“Why is this building so quiet, all of a sudden?” (in Indonesian with English subtitles).

Anwar uses the flickering match-light and gathering gloom and water to set us up as Toni is summoned to “check on” the prepared corpses with Mr. “You have nothing to fear, just trust in Allah” (Kiki Narendra). Funny how Ustad Mahmud gets a sore back midway through this creepy duty and begs off.

Toni suddenly discovers a gift for massages, pleading, anything to keep this alleged adult from ditching him to check on the dead, which are anything but “quiet.”

There’s a cute, sassy neighbor (Rata Felisha) that the boys all joke must be a “hooker” who needs saving from all the dead who aren’t really dead, and the undead from the first film who return for cameos.

The scale may be bigger than the original film, but the tagline for the sequel is “just fun enough to get by.” The acting is pretty good, and by that I mean the players let us think they’re terrified. It’s somewhat predictable, and the finale is one of those “Let’s over-explain this and maybe set up another sequel” let-downs.

But the jump-frights pay off, the effects are excellent and the zombie makeup even better. And there’s something to be said for the novelty of it all. It isn’t every night-of-the-living-dead spawn that’s built around the Islamic way of death.

Rating: unrated, bloody horror violence

Cast: Tara Basro, Endy Arfian, Nassar Annuz, Rata Felisha and Egy Fedly.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Joko Anwar. A Shudder release.

Running time: 1:58

Rating: unrated, bloody horror violence

Cast: Tara Basro, Endy Arfian, Nassar Annuz, Rata Felisha and Egy Fedly.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Joko Anwar. A Shudder release.

Running time: 1:58

First time they’ve shared the credits since “Pulp Fiction?”

Granted, both have seen a lot of better days since then, better days that wound down long before now.

This thriller rolls out Nov. 11.

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Imagine a “West Side Story” where the gang-bangers are unisex toughs and the squares are forced to confront their own unspoken gender identity issues, all set on neon-soaked sound-stages dressed with 1950s props and “Cabaret” decadence.

That’s “Please Baby Please,” a fascinating but frustrating overreach that is never more fun than when it’s most over the top, but never really gets a handle on what it’s supposed to be about.

Andrea Riseborough produced and stars in this vamp, playing a wild-haired, wild-eyed ’50s hepcat, co-hosting jazz record parties in their under-furnished tenement flat with husband Arthur (Harry Melling), making the scene at all the cool beat poetry readings.

But when the finger-snapping, “Wild One” leathered, gender-blurring Young Gents murder a mother and her child on the street in front of their apartment, the curtain is opened on their marriage and the gloves come off.

Arthur is fey and nebbishy and can’t be goaded into intervening, or for that matter defending the shocked and awed Suze.

“I won’t be terrorized into acting like a savage.”

In their crowd, Ida (Alissa Torres) and Les (Yedoye Travis) and others, that stance is an excuse to dive into what is “expected” of a man and a woman in their era. Men have the burden of masculinity, which can entail violence at times. Women?

“Ida, tell me, how does a woman get respect?” “Easy. Be BORING,” because let’s face it, “We ARE the fantasy.”

Suze is bowled over by the life lessons of their rich new (In a tenement?) neighbor (Demi Moore, even further “out there” than Riseborough) and our heroine finds herself sifting through a lot of 1950s gender “rules” that don’t fit her reality.

“Men are the executors of history,” so her being a lot brassier than Arthur won’t matter. That’s not how anyone will remember these Eisenhower “Happy Days.”

Arthur finds himself drawn to a pretty-boy/murderer (Karl Glusman) in the gang. Suze takes a lot of abuse from the gang’s tough-guys and transgender punks. Yeah, she hears the Dutch word for wall that keeps the sea from flooding in — a lot.

Director and co-writer Amanda Kramer (“Ladyworld”) isn’t content with just one or even two points of view. Still, the narrative does settle on a tone and style, as does the production design — lurid on a budget, with a leather bar and porn theater settings and obvious “prop” versions of the appliances that so delighted Americans of the I-like-Ike age.

It’s the sort of stage-show fantasy that cries out for song and dance, and gets just a taste of each — a transgender woman crying through “Since I Don’t Have You” (a hit for The Flamingoes and the The Skyliners), Riseborough and Melling swirling a sort of interpretive dance to the doo-wop and rockabilly for the film’s “Well, this is all I could come up with” finale.

I didn’t dislike this. But it isn’t exactly satire, never quite nails parody and Kramer seems to fumble around groping for one or the other.

Sure, I’ll watch anything Riseborough does, and she was the best thing in “Amsterdam.” But “Please Baby Please” had me begging for more…something.

Rating: unrated, violence, nudity, profanity, adult themes

Cast: Andrea Riseborough, Harry Melling, Demi Moore, Karl Glusman, Ryan Simpkins, Jaz Sinclair, Alisa Torres, Mary Lynn Rajskub and Dana Ashbrook.

Credits: Directed by Amanda Kramer, scripted by Amanda Kramer and Noel David Taylor. A Music Box release.

Running time: 1:36

A healthier than expected Saturday pushed Warners’ comic book adaptation “Black Adam” to the edges of blockbuster territory. It had been looking like a “disappointing” $60 million weekend on Friday, with the $70-73 projected well beyond reach. But Dwayne Johnson delivered and the fans showed up, rallying this $195 million plotless ego trip over $67 million.

“Ticket to Paradise” proved a healthy bit of counter programming, pulling in $16.3 from an older less fanboyish crowd.

“Halloween Ends” fell off a disastrous 80% on its second weekend, tumbling behind “Smile,” which is still clearing $8 million a weekend ($8.3) while David Gordon Green’s reviled finale to his trilogy may have hit $8 after clearing $40 when it premiered.

The milieu is more interesting than anyone in it and anything they do or have happen to them in “Ragged Heart,” an earthy dive into the underbelly of a “music scene that was” — Athens, Ga.

It’s the college town where The B-52s, R.E.M., Matthew Sweet and Widespread Panic got their start, a folk-artsy enclave in the Red State that Georgia is outside of Atlanta and Savannah. In writer-director Evan McNary’s film, that distant musical afterglow is the background noise of a story of a retired musician whose semi-famous singer-songwriter daughter came “home” from Berlin to kill herself.

So, Cracker Gothic? Little bit.

Wyatt (Eddie Craddock) is a Dickie Betts-looking old-timer, a guitar player who doesn’t play anymore but keeps his hair and sideburns in some sort of Allman Brothers tribute style. He spends his days rustling up junk for a folk artist friend and others, taking his brain pills and playing out life’s string.

He is “runnin’ outta carrots to tie to th’end of the stick,” he deadpans. “I fairly sizzle with zeal and enthusiasm.”

Daughter Miranda (Willow Avalon) has made something of a name for herself, singing in a sort of Southern-fried Amy Winehouse style. She comes “home” for her birthday, answers one of her dad’s voice mails and passes out — mid-call — while inner tubing down a lonesome river.

The last thing she left behind is some lyrics she was working on, the sort of legacy coveted by her dad and by her former lover, the embattled local record producer Declan (Joshua Mikel). Maybe something can be done with those words that would heal Dad and save Declan’s bacon.

“Ragged Heart” is an odd visual blend of rusty, trashy, “local color” backgrounds, snippets of musical performance and extreme close-ups of Miranda and “the New Miranda,” a singer Declan is grooming for stardom.

The performances have an amateurish monotone that matches the flat emotional pitch of the film.

Things kind of go wrong with Miranda’s death and funeral, neither of which merits so much as an onscreen tear. Where’s the grief?

McNary pays documentary-level single-scene attention to this or that artist or musician who hangs around the edges of the story. But the story itself suffers from a lack of novelty or much of anything interesting, just a few music biz tropes trotted out for melodramatic effect.

Compelling performances sometimes can compensate for those sorts of shortcomings. Not here.

McNary found an under-filmed setting and a curious world for all this to take place in. But the tale he wants to tell is too trite to hold our attention without larger-than-life characters telling it, without performers who know how to play larger-than-life.

Rating: unrated, suicide, smoking

Cast: Eddie Craddock, Willow Avalon, Joshua Mikel.

Credits: Directed by Evan McNary, scripted by Evan and Debrah McNary. An Unfilmable Productions release on Amazon, Tubi, etc.

Running time: 1:27

“Next Exit” is about a cross-country drive in pursuit of a supervised “research study” suicide, and as such, it’s more a road comedy than an existential quest. Not that first-time feature writer-director Mali Elfman doesn’t try to have it both ways.

Two strangers decide to drive rather than fly cross country to their date with death. They “meet cute” and set off angry sparks that turn even angrier as their reasons for wanting to end it all become clear. But as they encounter other people along the way and make detours into their pasts, we and they come to understand how they came to this place in their lives that makes them want to end them.

That’s classic “road picture” formula, and it’s about as predictable as the film’s finale, which we guess the moment Rose cranks up their rented Jeep Grand Cherokee in NYC for the drive to San Francisco. But it’s not the journey, it’s the destination, right?

A clever opening has a little boy talking to his newly-ajar bedroom closet door, and then we see the camera set up in his room and the card game little Rio is playing with his recently-deceased father. This “irrefutable evidence” of “life beyond” death is “world changing” and “culture shifting.” And after the researcher (Karen Gillan) who made this discovery woodenly lectures a TV camera about what her Life Beyond research study is doing, we get a glimpse of what she means.

News coverage about a world in economic decline and the mass depression and suicide spike that accompanies it tells us that this “irrefutable proof” has people literally dying to find out what comes next. And Dr. Stevenson (Gillan) is helping, doing research that is “ushering us into the next era in human existence.” Kind of makes it hard for anybody to plan anything, though. And don’t even think about what a mass exodus would do to the global economy.

One person who’s had enough of this life are Rose (Katie Parker of “The Haunting of Bly Manor”), who goes by her middle name because what adult would want to be called “Blossom” in this day and age? As that’s what’s on her driving license, she’s irked every time someone makes that mistake. Rose is irked by default. And she trots out her resting bitch face to the rental car agent who has a problem with her reservation, and the hapless Brit expat Teddy (Rahul Kohli, also of “Haunting of Bly Manor”) fated to share this drive to The End with her.

The Life Beyond Institute has accepted them as “participants,” test subjects for this ongoing research. That entails assisted suicide, with these two having appointments five and seven days from now.

Rose is in a fury — testy and rude, with enough self-loathing to want to kill herself, but enough loathing left over to take in her new road buddy Teddy. She’s so hostile no jokes can defuse the ticking time bomb in her soul.

“If you mind me dead in the morning,” Teddy helpfully tells a motel clerk, “SHE did it.”

Their road trip will lightly sample some of the consequences of an unhappy nation deciding “F— it, I’m done.” A depressed stranger throws himself in front of the Jeep. An obsolete priest can’t get his mind around this eagerness to exit. A sad barfly tells of the people he’s killed before shooting up the roadhouse TV.

But Teddy, a binge eater and fan of fried meat and junk food in its many forms, resolves that they should “try and have some fun” along the way. So scratch “shoplifting Pabst Blue Ribbon from a Texas convenience store” off your bucket lists, kids. Let the good times roll.

The novelty in this is the whole “existence beyond death thing” and Elfman — yes, she’s Danny’s daughter — spends some time and production money on visually imagining that “beyond.” There’s even a hint of what this knowledge does to some people’s psyches, butjust a hint. Mainly, this is a dark — very dark — romantic comedy and mystery. The mystery is whether their fated romance is enough to mend people broken enough to want to kill themselves.

Parker and Kohli have a nice, mismatched chemistry and their banter lightens the film, which has stretches where we worry it’ll be content to be just gloomy and depressing. Gillan gives off her usual metallic vibe, here in service of a sort of Elizabeth Holmes/Theranos “new science” hustler.

Like life itself, “Next Exit” is very much a mixed bag — tiny triumphs weighed down by a lifetime of tragedies, guilt, blame and regret in a film that works as a road comedy and kind of works as an exploration of existential crisis, just not as well.

Rating: unrated, adult subject matter, violence, profanity

Cast: Katie Parker, Rahul Kohli and Karen Gillan

Credits: Scripted and directed by Mali Elfman, A Magnet/Magnolia release.

Running time: 1:46

The running tally from Friday has now firmed up at $26.8 million, including Thursday’s previews.

So now the ceiling on Dwayne Johnson’s supervillain/superhero project “Black Adam” looks like $62 million. Earlier predictions were well north of $70.

Indifferent to angry reviews didn’t boost it, but word of mouth seems OK, so it should hit this new lower mark without a problem. At least the theaters are full. Ish.

The George Clooney/Julia Roberts rom com “Ticket to Paradise” is pulling in an older audience to the tune of $16 million.

“Halloween Ends” is streaming and it is falling off over 70% in box office take on its second weekend — under $9. “Smile” will end up doing better in theaters, overall.

The things some people will go to avoid watching the damned Yankees.

Stumbling across “Eight Men Out” last night brought back memories of the film, what it represented — a turn towards mainstream by indie film icon John Sayles — and how it came off in an era when “Bull Durham,” “Field of Dreams” and “The Natural” put America’s game on the screen as a backdrop for all manner of screen stories.

I remember thinking at the time that the play of the cast was about two thirds to three-quarters the speed of “real” big leaguers. It’s generally a mistake to assume athletes of the past were wholly inferior — conditioning standards notwithstanding — to their modern counterparts. But that seems to matter less, seeing it now.

Sayles found an excellent “Shoeless Joe” Jackson for this account of the 1919 World Series-fixed by gamblers crime that came to be called “The Black Sox Scandal.“D.B. Sweeney played more than one jock in his prime, and he hit left-handed (unlike the “other” Shoeless Joe in “Field of Dreams”) and carried himself like a baller. Acting workshop kids like John Cusack or Martin Sheen’s son Charlie Sheen (who’d go on to do the “Major League” comedies) and future Broadway clown/mime Bill Irwin did a decent enough job of faking it, with a little editing help.

The director was coming off a celebrated period piece, the mining town drama “Matewan,” that turned him in an “I can hire established actors now” direction. James Earl Jones was in that one, and the former TV star, Kevin Tighe (“Emergency!”) was in it, and he and Sayles’ muse David Strathairn would appear in “Eight Men Out.”

Sayles, working from an authoritative book account of the scandal, shows the “greatest team” of its era embittered by its stingy owner, Charles Comiskey (Bond “Sheriff” Clifton James), who cheated them out of promised bonuses for wiping the floor with the rest of the American League that season, and screwed-over star pitcher Eddie Cicotte (Strathairn) in particular.

Enter some gamblers with different financiers and the same agenda (Tighe, and Christopher Lloyd and Richard Edson). All they needed was the backing of gangster Arnold Rothstein (Michael Lerner) and the ear of one disgruntled player, first baseman Chick Gandil (Michael Rooker), who’d bring on a few other players, a couple of all-important pitchers included, and the fix was on.

Sayles treats the story as a “loss of innocence” parable, with cynical, predatory owners, predatory gangsters, cynical sports journalists (historian Studs Terkel played Hugh Fullerton, and Sayles himself was the legendary Ring Lardner) and naive but corruptible players misused by one and all.

A couple of the White Sox — (Cusack’s third baseman Buck Weaver) and illiterate outfielder Shoeless Joe– were wise to the scheme and even considered part of it, but played their guts out instead of dogging it in the best-of-nine World Series with the Cincinnati Reds. As reporter Fullerton makes his suspicions known and baseball decides to get to the bottom of it, the “Eight Men Out” and part of the scheme wind up in court, a trial that tramples all over the simple ballplayers’ rights thanks to baseball’s first “commissioner,” the power-drunk Kennesaw Mountain Landis (legendary character actor John Anderson).

Sayles made a modern old fashioned baseball movie that may have lacked the gloss and grandeur of “The Natural,” but still found glory in the historical game, and tugged at the heartstrings by reviving the corniest bit of Black Sox lore, a devoted newsboy fan catching Jackson’s eye as he left the courthouse and uttering the immortal line, “Say it ain’t so, Joe.”

The film holds up beautifully largely because of that cast. John Mahoney, later a star on “Frasier,” is the perfect pick for “Kid” Gleason, the manager who has his suspicions and is at a loss about what to do. Strathairn makes Cicotte a villain with motivations — his career was winding down, his style of pitching (spitballs and “shiners” would be banned) and the “dead ball” era was about to end, so he needed his promised bonuses.

Sweeney’s forlorn presence as Shoeless Joe anchors the picture in pathos. Cusack and Sheen show the sparks of stars in the making and Irwin and Rooker make great contrasts as an aloof “college boy” star (Eddie Collins) and a working class mug ready to pocket easy money.

Sayles makes the most of his screen time here, even crooning a made-up version of the period hit “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” with the lyrics “I’m forever blowing BALL-games.”

One of the most important figures in the history of independent cinema, Sayles still turns out the occasional screenplay, but hasn’t directed a movie in nearly a decade. “Matewan” and “Eight Men Out” started a run that included such gems as “The Secret of Roan Inish,” “Lonestar,” “City of Hope” and “Men With Guns.” His more recent films include a few that didn’t work and didn’t find an audience, and “Honeydripper,” which did but which came out 15 years ago.

Watching this account of one of baseball’s darkest hours is –with a few historical quibbles — almost as good as seeing an authoritative documentary on the subject. “Eight Men Out” still stands out as one of the best baseball movies ever, and watching it again beats watching the damned Yankees or cheating Astros any day.

Rating: PG, some profanity

Cast: John Cusack, David Strathairn, D.B. Sweeney, Charlie Sheen, Michael Rooker, Bill Irwin, Studs Terkel, Christopher Lloyd, Nancy Travis, John Sayles, Maggie Renzi, John Anderson, Michael Lerner, Clifton James and John Mahoney.

Credits: Scripted and directed by John Sayles, based on a book by Eliot Anisof. An Orion release now streaming and showing on various sites, PositiTV, etc.

Running time: 1:59