When was the last time you took a moment out of your day to
truly appreciate just how very insane
Space Jam was? At some point in probably roughly
1994-ish, a man with an idea stood in front of executives who have money and
said “Michael Jordan plays basketball with Elmer Fudd and aliens
and I think we should get Bill Murray” and the executives said “Here’s money to
go make a movie where Michael Jordan plays basketball with Elmer Fudd and
aliens and we’ll get you Bill Murray” and then it
happened.
No, no. I don’t think you understand. The movie was made. People were paid to make a
movie where Daffy Duck and Marvin the Martian post up on aliens who were real
tiny but then got real big by sucking basketball powers out of real, actual NBA
players who agreed to be a part of this insanity. Then the aliens used their
new basketball powers to challenge the Looney Toons to basketball, lest they
became amusement park slaves or something. And also Danny DeVito was their
boss.
Space Jam was the reason I stayed in my terrible, terrible
child basketball league where I never scored and couldn’t walk and dribble at
the same time. Space Jam was indirectly responsible for parents that I hope weren’t
mine leaning over to their spouses and saying in hushed whispers “At least
Derek isn’t as dreadful as that blubber-fisted
ham steak sloshing his way to defense. Oh what a surprise. He tripped on his
cankle again.”
I played basketball because I loved the crap out of a movie
whose star had the acting chops of a bean sprout. Bugs Bunny
sinking a jump shot was all the inspiration my Dorito-addled brain needed to
fabricate grandiose championship scenarios. They never happened, and I was
worse at the sport than Newman from Seinfeld was, who was also in Space Jam,
which is something I literally just now remembered.
This was the Avengers of the NBA/Cartoon world. Those aren’t
two worlds that even make sense together, but it doesn’t matter, because it
happened. And because Space Jam happened, I’m still holding my breath for Cyber
Gridiron. Which is what I call my movie script about the Thundercats joining
forces with the Manning brothers as they struggle to save Snarf from a team of
cyborgs who choose to hang their hostage’s life on the outcome of an American
football game, instead of just killing him outright, which I think we can get
away with by attributing it to a “technical programming error in the equational
logic circuits” of the cyborgs.
What I’m saying here is while quality filmmaking isn’t a thing
Space Jam had, what it did have was an imaginative, meth-fueled
script filled with originality. This was before the era when all Hollywood did
was prequels, sequels, reboots, redos, rematches, and remixes, of course, so
you can’t say this is the future of filmmaking and a return to unique scripting
and great idea men. You might be able to say that about Rian Johnson’s Looper, which many critics actually are,
but that’s an opinion for another day.
I just think that because we exist in a reality where
Patrick Ewing, Charles Barkley, and Larry Bird can be put into the same hyper
crazy stew as Yosemite Sam, Porky Pig, and Tweety Bird, we should be smiling
at least eight hundred times more a day. And if you’re sad, remember that you
can always watch Michael Jordan pretend to talk to Bugs Bunny. Be heartened in
your heart that the reason Jordan delivered all his lines like he was unsure
and afraid was because of many conversations like the following with director
Joe Pytka that is 100% absolutely true:
Pytka: So, Michael, just stare at this tennis ball, deliver
your lines, and we’ll put Bugs Bunny in later.
Jordan: He’s not there, Joe. Don’t be thick with me.
Putka: Right, yeah. Of course he isn’t, Michael. We’re
putting him in the movie in post. He’s not there yet.
Jordan: Well why don’t we get him over here?
Pytka: He doesn’t exist, Michael.
Jordan: You say those lies to me one more time, Joe, and I’m
going to hit you in the middle of your face.
Pytka: Okay, let’s not do that. We just really need you to
deliver your lines to this tennis ball and pretend it’s Bugs Bunny.
Jordan: I don’t see why I should pretend.
Pytka: Yes, that’s great. Method acting. Love it.
Jordan: I’m not acting.
Pytka: What a pro!
Jordan: I want to go home.
Pytka: Action!
But really, guys. If something as batcrap crazy as Space Jam can happen, what other
delightful, joyful things can happen? Live every day as though Space Jam could happen to you. I might go as far as to say that hope
for a cancer cure is just around the bend, because we exist in a realm that
thinks the NBA and the Looney Tunes should be merged together. I think I might
just be willing to venture a guess that as a species, we’re right around the
corner from becoming immune to AIDS. I might say with hopeful hesitation that
because of Space Jam, I’ll live to
see December 22 this year.
Wait, I’ve had a thought. What if it’s the opposite? What if
instead of Space Jam as proof that
life is beautiful, it’s actually proof that life is definitely not? Does the
fact that Space Jam exists make this
life worth living, or does it mean we should be holding weekly suicide luncheons?
Oh my dear sweet lemon juice concentrate. What
if
Space Jam was a foretelling of things to come? The marriage of two worlds
that ought never be joined. The intimate binding of creature and man til they
cannot be distinguished, one from the other. When the dimensional rift is
complete, flame and suffering will be on what we sup, pain and smoke our
currency. Before the great Old Ones we will bow on bended and bare knee across
the broken glass of a landscape we no longer recognize. Though we will cry for
deliverance and even death, we’ll re
ceive neither,
for the Ancient Ones do not know suffering, do not know pain, know nothing, in
fact, but affliction. They will toy with us and we will shed tears if there
remains but enough of our soul to weep. The tears will fall for our fallen
brothers and sisters, but not because they’ve left us, no. We will weep jealously to
join them in the Next, to whatever awaits beyond this torture, this pain, this
unending anguish. Cry out, children of the damned. Cry out, children of the new
world. Raise your voices and praise or curse the Black Goat, to Yog-Sothoth, to
Azathoth,
for their tenants come,
one by one, till our lives are blessedly snuffed like the pathetic flame of a
waxless candle.
Ia! Ia! Cthulu Fthagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nfah Cthulu R’lyeh
wgha’nagl fhtagn!
I’m pretty sure that message is in the subtext of Space Jam. I might be overthinking this.
- Blunderbuss Wilson
I'm not saying it was right. I'm not saying I'm still thinking these thoughts. I'm just saying that at the time, Lola Bunny was a special kind of woman. A kind of woman more like a rabbit than most women. A kind of woman who existed much less than most women typically do. The kind of woman who was super good at basketball and the second best player on the Looney Toons team behind Michael Jordan. So I suppose that means she was by some kind of broken transitive property almost as good as Michael Jordan at basketball. She was an independent lady of class and station who would mostly certainly not abide a man calling her "doll."
