There’s this great trick that Francis Ford Coppolla pulls at the beginning of The Godfather, where he opts to forgo having a narrator and/or title cards to explain the story.
It’s a very purposeful move, motivated partly (I suspect) by the popularity of Mario Puzo’s novel. The original novel was quite the financial success it its own right, sitting on the bestseller list for well over a year, and selling over nine million copies in that time.
But the book features an omniscient narrator, and Coppola didn’t want that degree of separation to come between his film and his audience.
Foreknowledge can inform us, but it rarely moves us. I know this, because no matter how many times I watch the Spurs old championship games, I just cannot fully recapture the feeling.
There’s still joy, but the joy has turned nostalgic. I cannot craft anticipation from a place of perfect knowledge.
That’s what’s so thrilling about the postseason. The Spurs won at a 50-game pace for most of my life, and still, *only* came home with five titles. Only 6 championship berths.
That irregularity, that unpredictability, is where the adrenaline and the exhilaration live.
And that’s why, when Coppolla drops us right into the film, in medias res, mid-conversation with the kingpin of the title, we’re immediately locked in. It’s a perfect opening, with almost no hint of the frivolity of the occasion outside filtering though, so intimate and hushed that it almost feels like we’re eavesdropping, or part of the room.
And that is, I think, the whole point. The film encourages you, from the very beginning, to play witness to the intimacies of a crime family. The voices are warm and domestic. Even the directions and doings of the gathered mafioso are delivered with decorum and a certain air of courtliness.
It wants you to like them. It wants you to get swept up in the affection and the domesticity that’s masking the violence. It does its level best to make you a fan of the Corleones.
Why? Because fandom has a way of thwarting objectivity. I’ve always found the shortening of the word ‘fanatic’ to ‘fan’ to be fascinating.
It’s almost as if those engaged in fandom are incapable of considering that it is a form of fanaticism. As if fanaticism is something that only exists within the context of politics or religion. As if abbreviating the word will somehow change the nature of truth itself.
The truth is that last night Victor Wembanyama elbowed Naz Reid right in the face.
The truth is also that it was absolutely premeditated.
There are in fact a whole list of truths that I could rattle off, such as:
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How the officials have allowed Minnesota to more-or-less play prison ball for most of the series.
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How Victor was fouled multiple times right before the elbow, in a clear sight-line, with nary a call made to protect him.
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How it’s easier on twitter to find stills of all the ways in which Victor has been pushed, pulled, and clawed at, than it is to find videos of him doing cool stuff with the basketball, and there are a lot of those!
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How the way this series has been officiated on the side of physicality was just asking for an outburst from somebody, eventually.
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How that one elbow from Wemby hardly compares to the whole pantheon of flagrant fouls that it’s currently being compared to by fans of both franchises, and NBA twitter at large.
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How it was still the wrong thing to do and ultimately cost the Spurs the game.
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How it might have been necessary, for Wemby to send a message about his physical boundaries, and what he is capable/willing to do to protect them past a certain point.
The elbow is an incredibly personal part of the body. We don’t think about that because of how little we see our own, but virtually all of our upper body movements hinge on the engineering marvel that is the Articulatio Cubiti.
Almost every sporting movement is dependent on it, from the very obvious varieties of throwing to even the act of running itself, when we depend on our elbows to assist in the repetition of form and balance.
Or even more intimately, in the act of feeding ourselves and cleaning ourselves (I sincerely hope that I never learn what it’s like to try to use toilet paper without the aid of an elbow), or embracing our loved ones.
All of mythology surrounding the elbow appears to function in extremes, whether it’s the indigenous legends of the Ojibwe talking about the terrifying cannibalistic “elbow witches” of the great lakes and northern plains, who murder their victims with the knives embedded in their olecranons (elbow-tips), or vodoo folklore claiming the act of rubbing elbows with another person can swap the destinies and/or energies of the individuals involved.
Or old urban legends suggesting that children can change gender by kissing their own elbow. Or The Book of Ecclesiastes claiming that “stretching your elbow at dinner” (reaching across the table) is as shameful a thing as the breaking of a vow.
Taoism even goes as far as to assign specific traits to each elbow, with the right elbow serving as a conduit to the power, action, movement, and choices of the individual, and the left to receptivity, emotions, and the receiving of love or support. I guess in that context, throwing the right elbow really was a choice.
And yet, all levity aside, I can’t really convince myself that it was a ‘good’ choice.
For fans in my age group and older, I suspect an elbow to the head is still a pretty sore spot for those of us who can vividly recall the viciously premeditated elbow that Malone delivered with such force that it knocked David Robinson unconscious for the better part of two minutes.
And while it was quickly obvious that Reid hadn’t received a blow on par with that one, it wasn’t an enjoyable flashback to the anxiety of those two minutes of April 8th, 1998, when no one knew what the overall state of the Admiral was/would be yet.
Those are not two minutes that I would wish on any fan-base.
But to that end, I think there’s something we have to acknowledge about this Spurs team, and about Victor, when it comes to the legends of the past: they’re different.
Maybe (probably) because they’re so young, these players carry themselves differently. That “we don’t care”mantra is a markedly different banner to unite under, after years of Spurs teams that (while also probably not caring), did their best to never give the opposition bulletin board material.
They talk trash, even going as far as to (per Express News scribe Jeff McDonald) tell Kevin Durant that they were doubling and tripling him not because he’s good, but because his teammates suck.
Relevant a commentary as it may have been, it takes a special level of audacity to tell a legend of the game that right to his face, in the middle of the game, within earshot of his comrades/co-workers/scapegoats.
And this is something I’ve started to wonder about lately, as I compared this team’s efforts to the heartless business attitude of organized criminals and the swagger of a souteneur:
Just how hated are these Spurs going to be? And how deserving of that hatred?
There’s a certain blindness that affects a fan. Thunder fans are incapable of seeing their team as a cadre of floppers extraordinaire. Golden State fans were largely incapable of admitting their dynasty hinged on an unprecedented MVP-level addition to a team that had won 73 games. Heat fans were unwilling to admit that the unholy alliance that benefited them forever warped the concept of competitive balance within the league, to the point of the NBA enforcing the most restrictive CBA since the dawn of free-agency.
And these are just a few examples. Fandom bewitches us all. And sometimes it implicates us too.
That’s why Coppola wanted us to feel close to the Corleones. Why Scorsese wanted us caught up in the awe emanating from Henry Hill in Goodfellas. It’s the same trick that David Chase later pulled with Tony Soprano’s therapy sessions and that Vince Gilligan pulled in drawing us into the humble beginnings of a cancer-stricken meth-lord in Breaking Bad.
Everyone is a villain in someone else’s story. That elbow earned permanent (and perhaps justifiable) hatred from someone, in the same way that I’ll probably never stop wishing ill on the Utah Jazz.
And part of that is just in the nature of being a fan — the thrill of us versus them that plays out in virtually every arena. But the contrast is becoming more and more apparent, justifiable reasons or not.
In the context of film, I’m starting to see Tim Duncan as Obi Wan Kenobi, and Victor Wembanyama as Anakin Skywalker.
Duncan, like Kenobi, almost unassumingly defeated the majority of his most impressive foes, and Wemby, like Anakin, came into the fold as the chosen one, and has suffered an emotional outburst.
Will he bring balance to the force? I can’t say that I’d include that elbow under the category of ‘ethical hoops’.
Maybe it was necessary. Maybe it’ll lead to better basketball and better officiating. Maybe players will think twice before messing with Wemby. Maybe it was a one time thing that we’ll largely have forgotten years from now.
Or maybe this Spurs team is shaping itself into a different kind of Silver and Black villain.
I think maybe I’m so deep inside it now, that I have to withdraw, because I cannot be impartial
At this point I’m just hoping that Wemby takes the high ground first. The Imperial March is actually a really beautiful piece of music if you really think about it.
Takeways
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Look, I am very notably not a De’Aaron Fox hater. I think he’s taken on the Tony Parker role of blame within the context of losses and is largely undeserving, and I don’t think this loss was on him. However, I did not love that Dylan Harper, who was hotter than the Devil’s hooves, did not get more than 27 minutes, when Fox was clearly in a bit of funk and being targeted by the Wolves in Wemby’s absence. I understand that Harper is a rookie, and that Fox is just as capable of exploding for points, but I’d like to see a little more alternation when someone is pretty clearly the hot hand of the three guards.
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It also didn’t help that Keldon was having one of his worst games of the postseason after two games of his very best (on the defensive end), and if that was Mitch’s reasoning for trying to keep Harper playing with the bench, I at least understand that. It wasn’t that they all played badly. Kornet and Bryant specifically did yeoman’s work. But boy was the scoring rough in the second unit, and that may have been the difference since the Wolves (wisely) went with an eight-man rotation.
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It was also a rare off night for Julian Champagnie, who couldn’t seem to find his shot and fell victim to being picked on a bit on the defensive end. I think we can forgive him based on his body of work so far, but while he’s a plus defender by most metrics, when Victor is off the court he’s easier to exploit. Fond of him as I am, a lot of his positive effect in the starting unit depends on Victor’s presence. Which, I mean, is hardly a criticism considering Wemby’s effect on the whole team on both ends, but you get what I’m saying.
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Also, I just have to rave about his rebounding. He’s been great at grabbing boards all season, but I expected that to take a hit against bigger teams in the postseason. In fact, that was one of my greatest concerns for this team as a whole. But Champagnie is second on the team in rebounding (Kornet is almost matching him in less minutes), which has allowed the Spurs to play small against teams like the Wolves without giving up too much on the boards. It has been pure comedy when someone like Julius Randle has been stuck trying to keep up with Julian’s off-ball movement, to the point that I firmly believe that ‘Yakey Sax’ should be playing in the background whenever it happens. Do yourself a favor and keep an eye out for it.
Playing You Out – The Theme Song of the Evening:
You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid by The Offspring
