Dear Black America,
You should be mad. 42, the recently made biopic of epic legendary baseball player Jackie Robinson is a film that inspires one not to brilliance but to anger. Directed by Brian Helgeland (The Order, A Knight’s Tale) this negligently filmed self-indulgent film does harm to a story that was worthy of such great respect. But shoddy filmmaking isn’t the only downsides to this dud of a sports film. Stars Chad Boseman (of no particular credit), Harrison Ford, T.R. Knight (Grey’s Anatomy) and Nicole Beharie (Shame) give lackluster performances that talk too much and act too little. Most distractingly, Ford spends most of his time screen time giving his best Lewis Black impersonation. The only member of the ensemble that manages any type of actual portrayal of an emotive human is Christopher Meloni (Law & Order, True Blood) whose character is on screen only briefly.
If you ignore the cartoon white people pretending to be stereotypical puppets of an era of racial upheaval and ignore the cartoon black people pretending to be their counterparts, the bones of the film are a domino of failures that spills out of the screen like over-priced fountain soda. From the moment the projection light turns on, the viewer is force fed the context that no black players have ever played in baseball. It does this, somehow forgetting that the next hour and a half of film goes on to describe this very context at length. But what’s worse is the assumed stupidity of the movie goers that will be duped into seeing this Tyler Perry-esque disappointment.
From moment to moment the terribly under-thought dialogue devotes itself to explaining to the audience what the actors and you the audience should be feeling at any given moment. Take the example of T.R. Knight storming into his boss’s office after a long scene involving extreme racial conflict; now pause. You see, any filmmaker who has any skills at all would realize that the act of storming into the office immediately after the previous scene tells the audience what the actor is feeling and about what he is feeling it. But no, resume play, in ineloquent talk T.R. Knight proceeds to tell the audience how mad he is and why he is so mad.
Despite this insult to the audience’s intelligence, the only saving grace of this film is the only part the filmmakers had nothing to do with; Robinson’s story. Despite all the ineptitude exhibited by the cast, director, and editing team, the real life Robinson story is so profound and the person Robinson was so worthy of hero-worship that, despite the film, the viewer can fully comprehend why this one man is the only one to be worthy of having his number (the film’s namesake) retired permanently from baseball. (Spoiler alert) His story is one of such dignified heroism that it doesn’t require an elaborate spectacle and forced worship, the film’s drawn out and ill-executed final victory lap perforated by cut always of once-were racists who’ve come about and wives pushing babies through Brooklyn (End spoiler). But alas, that heroism is why Black Americans should be so angry. This man, this story, this episode of your history is great and, it deserved so much better than this.
Rating: Black America should be angry (3/10)
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