I know zilch about basketball, though I have seen Space Jam (1996) four times. Apparently, The Last Dance has just broken viewership records on Netflix, and it comes as no surprise. The series is a masterpiece in the assembly of archive footage, modern-day interview, and appropriation of soundtrack-ready tunes that I suspect can make taking a shit in a pre-lockdown Burger King somehow transcendental (my new ‘life goal’). This stunner, for example:
There is a current debate as to whether this is ‘real’ documentary or not as Michael Jordan had editorial control, but this an afterthought; it’s entertaining as hell, and I venture that all documentary is representation. The mere sight of a nonchalant Jordan sat there on a leather throne with his tumbler of whisky, in hysterics as he views on an iPad disparaging statements made against his worship by teammates and opponents, warrants an entire episode.
Not a very likeable bloke, but an entirely admirable one – he is scores above his supporting cast, and doesn’t seem bothered that he is derided as a prick. I’ll never understand the baying criticism of ruthless athletes; the sports supermen aren’t signing death warrants or invading countries, and one could argue that Jordan’s will to win put trophies in the hands of mediocre colleagues.
And for the record, I almost purchased a £6.99 basketball in Home Bargains last week. But I didn’t (there was no hoop available).
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 