Queen Latifah’s name, in Arabic, means “gentle,” and so she plays a physical therapist whose godsister is chasing NBA star point-guard Common. Goldbricking montage. But when he gets injured, it’s Latifah to the rescue—physical therapy montage—she falls asleep on his shoulder one night just as he flips on the enormous flat screen and up comes Romancing the Stone. But why call forth that old, sublimated love letter to insurgency and blow? Impossible not to like these two. He loves his mother, holds doors, “hates weaves,” plays jazz piano, fixes things, gives to charity, appreciates interior design, and understands. She eases his pain, helps him believe he can do it, is a homegirl, likes soul food and sweets. It’s bad news for that rival sister when she reveals herself too well-versed in a Morimoto menu. And anyway, sushi’s suddenly a bit déclassé, right?
The camera lifts from the final kiss to show the stadium’s banner of signs: “Barclay’s.” Yes, he’s a New Jersey, soon to be Brooklyn, Net. Show me, in ten years, the low-income housing that was promised in the Atlantic Yards complex, show me the local jobs. It will be too late, but I’ll show you three vibrant neighborhoods with a clog at their navel, and around it a knot of traffic and ring of junk t-shirt shops and shitty bars. Aw, who am I kidding, I can’t stay mad at these guys. Common can handle the ball convincingly, they shoot his dunks from below the rim. Originally named Common Sense (a Thomas Paine shout-out?), he rejects homophobic hip hop lyrics and has worked for AIDS awareness, PETA, and Obama. Could the name of this film be a quiet nod to the minister whose guidance this rapper and our president once shared? I’m not sure hoops brings anyone together—it’s beautiful but freighted, inherently gravity-obsessed.
Hope. U.N.I.T.Y. When Matt Longabucco plays basketball, an angel dies.
No comments:
Post a Comment