Josh

If you’re not on social media, good for you. If you are, you know that any good start by Dodgers pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto is immediately followed by a flood of venom aimed at former major league outfielder Josh Reddick.

No sooner had Yamamoto thrown his World Series complete game last week than Reddick got 3 million views for one of his tweets from two years ago.

Many of those viewers were happy to tell him he was a moron.

In 2023, the Dodgers signed Yamamoto, the winner of Japan’s version of the Cy Young award for three years running, for $325 million.

Reddick’s tweet: “How do you give a guy $325 million without ever throwing a pitch in MLB”

On Friday, the Dodgers will turn to Yamamoto to keep their season alive and force a Game 7 against the Toronto Blue Jays. He could — and this sounds insane in modern baseball — throw his third consecutive complete game.

Two weeks ago, after Yamamoto had thrown a complete game in the National League Championship Series, Reddick appeared on the “Crush City Territory” podcast.

“If Paul Skenes did not exist, Yoshinobu Yamamoto would be winning the Cy Young, going away,” podcast host Chandler Rome said.

Then Rome asked Reddick to answer for his tweet.

“I don’t think I would say I regret it,” Reddick said. “I’d probably say that tomorrow if they gave it [that money] to somebody else. That’s just my opinion, and I’m allowed to have it because it’s social media …

“That was my opinion, and obviously it was wrong. This guy has been phenomenal, and very, very, very, very, very, very good to come over here and do what he’s done. I’ll admit I was wrong on that one.”

Reddick said he regularly hears about it from Dodgers fans.

“They enjoy it,” he said. “I just love how much I live in Dodgers fans’ heads every day, and how they just look forward to making it feel like they’re upsetting me by sending these tweets and just completely ruining my day.

“If you’re a Dodger fan: It doesn’t bother me. So you do you for your two seconds of fame, and go back to work.”

At the time of the podcast, Reddick’s tweet had 9 million views. Now it has 12 million.

“It’s like wrestling, man,” he said. “You’ve got to be the good guy or the bad guy. As long as you’re a guy who’s getting noticed, you’re doing something right.

“I’m just playing the heel for the Dodgers for the rest of my life.”

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Kelly Reichardt’s watchful cinema is one of the indie world’s most exquisite bounties, a space for pioneers (“Meek’s Cutoff,” “First Cow”), artists (“Showing Up”) and wanderers (“Old Joy,” “Wendy and Lucy”) who command your attention the way an ER waiting room does, lingering tensely.

One might not consider a heist film in such anthropological terms. And yet “The Mastermind,” Reichardt’s latest and one of her best, while set in motion by a daylight art grab orchestrated by Josh O’Connor’s middle-class Massachusetts suburbanite, is another precisely turned Reichardt movie: honest, sad, funny and inherently philosophical about our engagement with the world. As you might expect, it’s really about the crime’s aftermath, our cut from this robbery being a deft, fascinating character study rooted in an apathy that’s starkly juxtaposed with the restive year it’s set in: 1970.

By the look of things, preppy, soft-spoken James Mooney (O’Connor), an unemployed carpenter, isn’t obvious criminal material, no matter what composer Ray Mazurek’s propulsive, horn-forward jazz score might imply. James cases his local art museum, often with his unwitting wife, Teri (Alana Haim), and two young boys in tow. Otherwise, James is just a distracted dad, checked-out husband and disappointing son living off the status and largesse of his parents, an esteemed judge (Bill Camp) and a society mother (Hope Davis).

Still, based solely on the error-prone heist — it’s been ages since pantyhose masks seemed so ridiculous — thievery isn’t this spoiled man’s strong suit either. (You didn’t think that title was respectful, did you?) When he’s stashing the stolen paintings later in a farmhouse’s hayloft and accidentally knocks the ladder out from under him, the moment is amusing and appropriately metaphorical.

Reichardt is laying bare a privileged man’s half-assed delinquency, especially with O’Connor so hypnotic at conveying self-absorbed cluelessness with his woeful eyes, posture and movement. As the movie then hits the road for his escape, the early fall colors of Christopher Blauvelt’s cinematography shift to gray tones and darker interiors, and James’ vibe is less rebel eluding capture — even if a pal he visits (John Magaro) expresses admiration — than alienated loser leaving behind a mess, an assessment radiating from Gaby Hoffmann as Magaro’s wife. The bebop groove abandons James, too, slowing into jagged drum solos.

The last contextual indignity are the details of the period itself: Nixon posters, anti-war signs, Vietnam footage on televisions, a protest march. Unforced but ever-present in Reichardt’s mise-en-scène, they remind us that this bored aesthete’s misadventure is an especially empty way to buck conformity. When good trouble beckons, why pick the bad kind?

One can even detect, in this brilliant, captivating Reichardt gem about fortune and fate, a what-if attached to her disaffected male protagonist: Would today’s version of James, just as adrift and arrogant, steal art to assuage his emptiness? Or, thanks to the internet, succeed at something much worse? “The Mastermind” may be an ironic title as heists go. But it also hints at the male-pattern badness still to come.