Hoop nightmares

There is an unspoken curse bedeviling the creative. The majority of society’s minority is driven by a passion to express themselves in a voice all their own, yet the gods have denied them the talent to have anything meaningful to say.

While I would never judge a poet by a single poem or a painter by an individual canvas, I’m afraid my solitary exposure to the work of the writer and director of Love and Basketball, Gina Prince, is all I have to work with.

Frankly, the mediocre result achieves what little buoyancy it has through the charisma and chemistry established between its two principle characters, Monica Wright and Quincy McCall, who are romantically involved basketball stars.

The director’s use of the camera at times leaves one lightheaded from its rapid motion and swirly imagery. Those prone to mal de mer might consider a Dramamine patch.

A second problem is the clumsiness of the sex scenes. There are lots of tongues and slurping and stuff, and it made me feel like a voyeur. The weird thing is, I am a voyeur, but I never felt creepy about it before.

At other times Prince employs the device to good purpose when shooting the adult Monica from a defensive perspective as the hoops’ star, alive with passion, drives down the court. Perhaps Prince’s significant talent - significant to her, not a talent of significance - lies in her ability to capture the excitement of athletic competition.

Alas, Prince the writer fares little better than Prince the director. The film lacks pace, often dawdling to the point of tedium between what few moments of interest there are. Additionally, the subject matter, a romance that began in childhood and continues into adult life, is burdened by a multiplicity of clichés.

There’s Monica the tomboy being told she should be more ladylike. There’s Monica the athlete being hounded by the coach, who tells her, “Do you think I would ride you so hard unless I thought you were worth it?” There’s Quincy telling his father he is going to quit his promising basketball career and education at USC and turn pro. And finally, there’s the issue of whether childhood sweethearts Monica and Quincy will finally find true love as adults.

Initially, the palpable appeal of preteen basketball players Monica and Quincy, played by Kyla Pratt and Glenndon Chatman, respectively, allows the audience an emotional involvement with the film. Later, as adults (played by Sanaa Lathan and Omar Epps), they evince the same engaging quality and, while Epps manifests a modicum of talent, Lathan’s got something that should stand her in good stead for a future in features.

The supporting cast incorporates Alfre Woodard, Debbi Morgan and Dennis Haysbert to varying effect. In one scene, Morgan’s work is so amateurish I suspect they’d re-shoot it on a television “daytime drama.” Prince uses it.

Haysbert displays a certain virile dignity as Morgan’s husband - their life, too, carries the freight of daytime angst - struggling both with the temptations confronting an NBA star and the responsibility of being a good father to Quincy. OK, the scenes between Haysbert and Epps display a certain something, and I suppose Prince gets some credit.

Only Woodard, who plays Monica’s mother, provides something extra, as one would expect, but even the majority of her talent remains unexposed. A gifted director should not only appreciate the capabilities of the actors at hand but also draw them out.

In an indicative scene Woodard and Lathan go through this mother/daughter thing - the film addresses any number of “women’s issues” - and one sits there hoping for an explosion of talent.

God knows, impassioned basketball ace Lathan attacking her housewife mother for a lifetime spent in the background cooking and cleaning should lead to a spark or two. Nope.