Space Jam

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 receive 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