Crossover
What’s the lame cliché? “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” In the lame cliché that is Crossover, those who can, do; and those who can’t, leech.
Vaughn (Wayne Brady) once aspired to be a big-shot NBA agent. He even sports a championship ring that one of his clients ostensibly gave him as a thank-you gift. But somewhere along the line, this wuz-gonna became a once-did. He set up shop as a Detroit 7-mile club owner and book maker, lording it over the gone- and going-nowhere streetballers who hoop it up for pride and joy.
Vaughn’s go-to boy is Jewelz, the quick-shuffling gee-whiz kid of the “underground” big-payoff basketball circuit. The house team hasn’t lost in ages, so Vaughn is a bit perturbed when hot-headed challenger Tech puts together a squad that gives Jewelz and company a run for Vaughn’s money.
The ringer on Tech’s team is Noah, headed for UCLA on a basketball scholarship, though his lovin’ grandma knows his heart is really set on a career in medicine. The tension in the plot revolves around the plans that everyone (but Noah) has for Noah’s NBA future, Vaughn’s scheming to perpetuate his little fiefdom, troubles with women (of the usual sort), Tech’s troubled past with Noah, and the inevitable showdown with Jewelz.
Wow. Doesn’t that just sound like Something New? Much in the same way as Tokyo Drift, yes. Where Drift had its footwork totally down, though, Crossover misses on nearly every cylinder. Drift was eyepopping, if a body-shopworn retread. Crossover is just mindboggling nonsense, the cinematic equivalent of three seconds in everyone else’s key.
Too bad, because Crossover’s heart is in the right place, if prominently displayed on its sleeve. It really wants to encourage kids to stay in school, to hope more for a good education than some fast-talker’s NBA long-shot hoop dreams. It honors hard-working mothers and doting grandmas. It justly disses scheming, two-timing Delilahs while it lauds fidelity. It challenges men to be men—honest, selfless, loyal, and responsible. And even though it’s as chastely horny as BET, it still steers clear of outright smut and profanity. It even manages to assert that the goal of life is more than just “being in the race,” as Vaughn likes to think. “It’s also about what you’re trying to win,” Vaughn’s girlfriend reminds him—or even how you’re trying to get there.
As Jesus might have said, “What good is that NBA ring if you had to whore yourself out to get there?” Naturally, this line of thought is profitable for every one of us, in a one-size-fits-all sort of way.
I doubt the audience I saw this movie with absorbed much of any of that, though. They were too busy hooting at the film’s absurd dialogue and hopelessly transparent plot complications—and I doubt a studio could have arranged a more friendly test audience, outside of Detroit itself.
If only Crossover had made its points in a more competent, entertaining, and intelligent fashion.
If only Wayne Brady picked movies the way he does improv.
Vaughn (Wayne Brady) once aspired to be a big-shot NBA agent. He even sports a championship ring that one of his clients ostensibly gave him as a thank-you gift. But somewhere along the line, this wuz-gonna became a once-did. He set up shop as a Detroit 7-mile club owner and book maker, lording it over the gone- and going-nowhere streetballers who hoop it up for pride and joy.
Vaughn’s go-to boy is Jewelz, the quick-shuffling gee-whiz kid of the “underground” big-payoff basketball circuit. The house team hasn’t lost in ages, so Vaughn is a bit perturbed when hot-headed challenger Tech puts together a squad that gives Jewelz and company a run for Vaughn’s money.
The ringer on Tech’s team is Noah, headed for UCLA on a basketball scholarship, though his lovin’ grandma knows his heart is really set on a career in medicine. The tension in the plot revolves around the plans that everyone (but Noah) has for Noah’s NBA future, Vaughn’s scheming to perpetuate his little fiefdom, troubles with women (of the usual sort), Tech’s troubled past with Noah, and the inevitable showdown with Jewelz.
Wow. Doesn’t that just sound like Something New? Much in the same way as Tokyo Drift, yes. Where Drift had its footwork totally down, though, Crossover misses on nearly every cylinder. Drift was eyepopping, if a body-shopworn retread. Crossover is just mindboggling nonsense, the cinematic equivalent of three seconds in everyone else’s key.
Too bad, because Crossover’s heart is in the right place, if prominently displayed on its sleeve. It really wants to encourage kids to stay in school, to hope more for a good education than some fast-talker’s NBA long-shot hoop dreams. It honors hard-working mothers and doting grandmas. It justly disses scheming, two-timing Delilahs while it lauds fidelity. It challenges men to be men—honest, selfless, loyal, and responsible. And even though it’s as chastely horny as BET, it still steers clear of outright smut and profanity. It even manages to assert that the goal of life is more than just “being in the race,” as Vaughn likes to think. “It’s also about what you’re trying to win,” Vaughn’s girlfriend reminds him—or even how you’re trying to get there.
As Jesus might have said, “What good is that NBA ring if you had to whore yourself out to get there?” Naturally, this line of thought is profitable for every one of us, in a one-size-fits-all sort of way.
I doubt the audience I saw this movie with absorbed much of any of that, though. They were too busy hooting at the film’s absurd dialogue and hopelessly transparent plot complications—and I doubt a studio could have arranged a more friendly test audience, outside of Detroit itself.
If only Crossover had made its points in a more competent, entertaining, and intelligent fashion.
If only Wayne Brady picked movies the way he does improv.
posted by Greg Wright at 10:31 PM
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