The Sport of Kings

At some point after Watergate, sports reporters began to suffer from the malady that has infected modern journalism—the delusion that a news story isn’t thorough unless it’s negative, world-weary, and skeptical. Even sports has been invaded by self-styled hard-hitting reporters, who confront the man who’s just scored a game-winning touchdown to ask him about his first-quarter fumble, his fear of failure, or his off-season contract dispute.

For the frustrated sports fan, Leon Gast’s Oscar-winning documentary When We Were Kings is like some wonderful daydream. Twenty-three years ago, Gast followed Muhammad Ali and George Foreman to Zaire, to document their legendary heavyweight championship bout, dubbed “The Rumble in the Jungle.” He was accompanied by the world media, who were also there to see the accompanying music festival (which featured James Brown, B.B. King, and The Spinners, among others) and to witness the colossal egos of two other men just ascending the world stage: Don King, ex-con boxing promoter, and Mobutu Sese Seko, the authoritarian dictator of Zaire.

Two boxing enthusiasts, George Plimpton and Norman Mailer, also made the pilgrimage to Zaire that autumn of ’74, and they show up again in When We Were Kings to reminisce about the fight and the spectacle. Their perspective on Foreman and Ali is invaluable, as is their knowledge of boxing; they give as much insight into the importance of footwork and into the significance of leading with a right cross as they do into the mind-set of the fighters. Seeing them, one pines for that sort of nuts-and-bolts sports reporting, which focuses on the techniques and strategies of competition and builds up the combatants into fascinating titans.

Not that there weren’t tough questions as far back as 1974. Most experts figured Ali would be clobbered, and there was some regret that the once-mighty fighter, who had shaken up the world with his fists and his political convictions, would be laid low by the brute destructive force of the robotic Foreman. But the men with the microphones were satisfied to ask leading questions and to let the performers explain themselves. In so doing, the reporters stimulated further conversation, rather than shocking the athlete into silence.

After Gast shot the footage that would comprise When We Were Kings, it sat on his shelf for two decades, waiting first for various music rights to clear, and then simply for money to finish the editing. Time has been kind to his material, especially the footage of Ali, who is all the more fascinating for his currently diminished presence. Gast himself has also been kind to his material, resisting the temptation to expand his film too far beyond the event he’s documenting. With the exception of a few, modern-day interviews and two brief montages dedicated to Ali’s career, Gast sticks with the story of what happened in Zaire.

And what happened there makes for rich viewing indeed. From the exciting performances of the J.B. Soul Revue to the constant stream of poetry, jokes, and ideas flowing from Ali’s lips, When We Were Kings is funny and thrilling. Right before the fight was set to start, Foreman got cut above the eye, which led to six weeks of milling around in Zaire, training and waiting and talking. The bulk of Gast’s film derives from the anticipation of the main event and the contrast of Foreman and Ali in repose. During the wait, Ali walks crowded African streets, laughing while children chant his name; Foreman, meanwhile, sulks in his air-conditioned hotel room. But Ali’s fear of Foreman is palpable, particularly in one riveting scene in which he skips rope and shouts insults at his imaginary foe—and, ultimately, at himself. When the bell finally rings, the tension is almost unbearable, even with the outcome already known.

In a dream world, When We Were Kings would be the first in a series of sports documentaries tracing the impact of a player, a season, or a single contest on the national psyche. Fictional sports films have become too contrived and obvious, removed from the real drama that surrounds sporting events. But there’s nothing contrived about Wilt Chamberlain scoring 100 points in a single basketball game, or Jack Morris pitching 10 shutout innings in Game Seven of the ’91 World Series.

And there’s nothing contrived about Muhammad Ali, who was larger than life in a time when life itself seemed bigger and more out of control. He said interesting, important things about race, spirituality, and, above all, his sport, which he revolutionized and uplifted. As When We Were Kings documents, when Ali left the ring, reporters closed their minds and notebooks—and the word “champion” lost its meaning.—Noel Murray

The blank generation

John Cusack can look sleepy and incredulous all at once, as if he’d been awakened in Goldilocks’ bed by bears. The look serves him well in Grosse Pointe Blank, a dark comedy so freakishly inventive it points out how inert most screen farces have become. Cusack plays Martin Blank, a bright, secretive loner who vanished from a Michigan suburb on prom night when he was 17. Without notice, 10 years later, Martin reappears in his hometown of Grosse Pointe with an agenda: to attend his 10-year high school reunion, to visit the prom date (Minnie Driver) he stood up a decade before—and to carry out a contract killing while dodging fellow assassins.