There’s something surreal about Ben Affleck’s latest directing effort. The film – supposedly a hymn to the talent of basketball legend Michael Jordan – was written, shot and edited by white men and is dominated by white, male actors (including Affleck himself, along with his old pal Matt Damon, Jason Bateman and Chris Messina). It’s like the punchline to a joke. How many white guys does it take to make a Michael Jordan movie? Too many.
But here’s the rub. Air is the story of how and why, in 1984, NBA rookie Jordan signed a game-changing deal with sports company Nike (the deal that gave us Air Jordan trainers). And once you’ve made peace with those really narrow parameters, what you see on screen – ie virtually nothing of Jordan himself – kind of works.
Heavily indebted to Aaron Sorkin projects like The Social Network and Moneyball (gossipy/bitchy banter rules), Air has a thesis. It’s implied that 21-year-old Jordan (Damian Delano Young) isn’t fussed about corporations and contracts. He has a brand preference (like all cool kids, he’s into Adidas, who, at this point, have all the money and ideas), but no particular desire to build and bolster his own myth.
His mother, Deloris (Viola Davis), is more canny. When schlubby, gambling-inclined Nike executive Sonny Vaccaro (Damon; effortlessly magnetic) makes clear the company will do practically anything to put Jordan in the spotlight, she senses an opportunity.
During a crucial scene in which Jordan finally meets the Nike team to discuss the deal, and the genuinely beautiful shoes, it actually makes sense that we don’t see Jordan’s face (shots of the back of his head and his gangly legs are all we get). Yes, his body is in the room, but his head is elsewhere because, like most people, he finds board meetings boring. The fact that Deloris finds them fascinating is what gives the film its edge. The middle-man, in this movie, is a woman, and there’s nothing middling about her.
The radical request she later makes by phone throws Sonny into a cold sweat, allowing Damon to shine (in all senses of the word) and giving Davis all the room she needs to wow us into submission – it’s a bit early to be discussing this, but a Best Supporting Actress Oscar nom ought to be in the bag.
Jordan insisted on Davis being cast as his mum, so Affleck can’t take credit for that swishy move. Or for putting two fascinating black characters in the mix: one-time basketball player-turned-coach George Raveling (Marlon Wayans) and Nike insider Howard White (Chris Tucker). That’s right, making space for these men was all Jordan’s idea. As for what Affleck does with his camera, it’s nothing special. He wishes he was David Fincher. He ain’t.
The good news is that he’s entirely plausible as a pillock. He plays Sonny’s boss, Nike chief executive Phil Knight, and staggers around in brightly-coloured tights like a modern-day Malvolio. His penny-pinching ways, and weaselish vanity, are just as hilarious.
It’s only just at the end that the script tries to suggest Phil is a hero (that, vis a vis wealth, he shares because he cares. Yeah, right). Our attention is repeatedly drawn to the Nike manifesto, which urges employees to break rules. By ultimately making Phil “likeable”, Air plays it too safe.
This movie’s getting the kind of attention that should have been lavished on Judas and the Black Messiah (a brilliantly funny and brutal portrait of another 21 year old, the Black Panthers pioneer, Fred Hampton). Air isn’t fit to tie the laces of Shaka King’s offering. Yet, I won’t lie, it’s a pleasure to do business with Sonny and Deloris.
Affleck’s made a disingenuous ode to Eighties capitalism. Here’s what’s so annoying. Though full of hot air, it’s a blast.
112mins, cert 15
