Review dedicated to Olivia, who resuscitated me from creative anaphylaxis via twitter dm asking me to watch this movie. If you have a film you’d like me to review, feel free to do the same, or yell at me from a moving car, or visit me in a dream. I’ll write just about anything I’m asked. 

Anything.

Introduction

Tennis. Tenn is what? A game of kings. A game of queens. A game of aces, jacks and jokers. A game of hate, of love, of 15, 30, 40, deuce, ad, deuce, ad, deuce, ad…infinitum—a set of games—a match of sets. But what is the point? And whose fault is it?  

Anyone who’s known me for more than eight minutes knows that I’m an avid tennis player. “Avid David,” they called me, which I’ve since learned doesn’t rhyme. I’ve been playing tennis for fourteen years, six more than I’ve been alive. At my peak, I occupied the upper echelon (top 20) of a tennis team in the upper echelon (top 40) of high schools in the upper echelon (top 50) of states in the upper echelon (top 195) of countries, in the world. The whole one. My career was scored by vicissitudes of fortune and vicious ‘tudes of haters. Numerous respites and hiatuses arising from a series of minor injuries incurred on and off the court, in and out of the court system. I heard the deafening rhythms of an inconceivably powerful magnet as the heavy metals coursing through my veins clung for dear life in their sanguineous sett. I watched as my radiologist gaped in horror at the aberrant blueprint of my skeleton before realizing the scans were upside down. I lay immobilized on a course of anxiolytics and analgesics deemed “not medically necessary” by my physicians. While I played, my mind was free of anxiety, free of depression, free of ADHD and borderline personality disorder. While I didn’t, it was preoccupied by two things: getting back to the game I loved, and sexy stuff like naked ladies and guys. Finally, a movie for me. For us.

Challengers

If you’re like me, you may have thought Challengers was about space missions, or those things you hang on walls that tell you what day it is. In fact, the film tells the story of Tashi, a tennis player forced to coach after suffering a career-ending knee injury, and Art and Patrick, two tennis players forced to keep playing tennis after not suffering career-ending knee injuries. The three meet at “teennis”, which is what they call tennis for teens. Art and Patrick are old friends from-

I’m sorry. I lied to you. No one calls it “teennis.” I don’t know why I said that. I thought maybe if I could dazzle you with my sports knowledge you’d let me hang out with you, make me one of “the guys.” But this isn’t the way, you can’t just spread misinformation online. So I apologize. And for the rest of this review, I’m only going to say things that are true. Now where were we?

Art and Patrick are old friends from tennis boarding school, which is where the CIA tortures you for information with tennis. The eve of the men’s singles finals, the two have a “men’s singles night” in their hotel room, rudely interrupted by Tashi. She puts her mouth on their mouths in an act of contrition, and leaves them to continue. Unfortunately I can’t get into more detail without spoiling the movie or being demonetized, so instead I’m going to give my thoughts on the film, so disjointedly that the plot is indecipherable. 

I watched Challengers at my local, independent cinema, “stoned” on local, corporate marijuana. Normally jazz lettuce makes me anxious, precipitating acts of tomfoolery like yelling out “fire!” or calling the fire department. I was a bit jumpy at first, but quickly became so engrossed in the film that I forgot to do either. This proved a grave mistake, as the other theater was a smoldering pile of rubble by the credits, and the building’s since been condemned by the marshal. This fact is of no consequence to me, as I’ve already seen Challengers. What more could they offer?

I thought Challengers was an engaging film, as two of the characters got married. The film features many scenes of people playing tennis, which is a sport, making it a “sports drama/comedy” And it certainly sports drama/comedy. The film keeps viewers on their toes—you never know which side anyone’s on, because the camera angle keeps changing. Challengers takes us through the highs and lows, apogees and Applebee’s of relationships, cleverly intertwining ball and life as we see the characters “play with” each other, physically and emotionally.

The film makes extremely good use of product placement, or as I like to call it, symbolism. Patrick gazes hungrily at a sandwich from Dunkin’ Donuts. Tashi’s last name is “Duncan.” Wow. Tashi is sponsored by Adidas, signifying the great heights she attained jumping over jumpman and drawing parallels to Stan Smith, a legendary tennis player felled by his own hubris when a witch turned him into shoes. Art is “iced out” head to toe in uniqlo, fleshing out his character as a weeaboo who goes on reddit for fashion advice. He’s just like me.

I’m currently reading Dracula on my phone. I’d offer a picture as proof but I don’t have a second phone to take it with. Because it’s long and boring I find myself going on Wikipedia to make sure I understand crucial plot elements, like which one the vampire is. In my studies, I discovered that: 

“Academic analyses of Dracula as sexually charged have become so frequent that a cottage industry has developed around the topic.” (Wikipedia Page for Dracula) 

I’ve always wanted to be a small business owner, so I’m here to start my own cottage industry… 

An Analysis of Challengers…

…as sexually charged. 

I know that sounds crazy, but hear me out. First, look at the poster for this movie—there’s one attached to this review. Imagine the thirst, the unbridled hunger for sexual intimacy behind the eyes peeking over those mirrored lenses. And that’s just a picture of me—I’m not even in the film. 

Consider the subject matter: tennis evokes prurient imagery. Racquets are phallic; balls testicular. Forehand and backhand are presumably masturbation techniques. I’ll leave “topspin” and “overhead” to the imagination. I was hoping the film would take advantage of the entrendic lexicon, having characters deliver witty and seductive dialogue like: 

“Damn baby, why don’t you let me hit,” or, “Hows about I show you my stroke in this alley.” Instead we get stuff like: 

“I just want to know you’ll love me no matter what.”

And

“Can you just hold me until I fall asleep?” 

And 

“At 31, you’d have a better shot with a handgun in your mouth.”

None of these are remotely related to tennis, except the third, an allusion to the sport’s rampant ageism (the player base is far too old). 

Despite this heroically unarousing intercourse, the film takes a “show, don’t tell” approach to intercourse, showing (but not telling) us the characters had intercourse. “Had” being the key word, as much of said intercourse is relegated to flashbacks interspersed throughout the film, rather than the present. For me this dissipated any stakes or tension (tennision) such moments could’ve accrued, as we already know the characters survived.  

Now personally I have no opposition to sex scenes in movies, because I’m not a baby. However, I’m told that Zoomers, the most lucrative demographic to pander to, dislike them. With the impending abolition of TikTok, I’m hoping to maneuver WordPress into the new de rigueur social media platform. As such, I’m willing to align with these “sexists” for as long as it benefits me financially. So I’d advise passing on this one in theaters; wait for it to be uploaded as a series of one-minute clips online in order to more easily skip over the icky parts. 

That said, this film doesn’t show nearly as much sex as it could have—for a 2 hour 11 minute runtime, we could’ve gotten ~9 orgasms per male character, and an ostensibly infinite number per female. And that’s with a one-shot, the possibilities are limitless through the magic of editing. Instead we get some partial nudity, kissing, no penetration, one hung dong, some under-the-towel stuff, and a climax at the very end (with no denouement!). If this was France no one would bat an eye, they’d just shout racial slurs and go on strike. This is the result of living in a country with puritanical morals and a continuous erosion of labor power.

Beyond sex, Challengers features an even more divisive (and critical) issue for contemporary society: polyamory. The existence of polyamory was first revealed in a hard-hitting exposé from crossword repository The New York Times. While I was against polyamory on doctrinal bases (I knew it was either Adam and Eve or Adam and Steve, but it certainly wasn’t Adam and Eve and Steve. It’s a garden, not a freaking farm!) this movie made me change viewpoints, due to “bayesian updating.”

It’s worth remembering, after all, that many works of classic literature have featured menages-a-troises: The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor, Mitya, Grusha), One Hundred Years of Solitude (Aureliano, the other Aureliano, Amaranta), The Scarlet Letter (Hester, Dimmesdale, Colonial Massachusetts), The Hunger Games (Katniss, Peeta, Gale), and The Bible (Father, Son, Holy Ghost). Coincidentally, my five favorite books. Challengers is my sixth favorite book.  

The notion that “three-way is the way” has subsequently migrated from page to screen. According to the Buzzfeed article 16 Threesome Sex Scenes Guaranteed to Make You Horny that I found while googling at the gym, there are 11 such films already, with Challengers completing the pantheon. (To the guy waiting impatiently for the bench, I’m not sorry—this is a critical part of my PPL routine).  

And it’s not like polyamorous people are hurting anyone, probably. They’re not polytheists, or polyglots. Why do you speak so many languages, huh? Is it to sell your country’s secrets to enemy states? I’m onto you. Anyway, have (consensual and legal) sex with whoever you want, however many people you want. And if anyone says anything, show them this blog. In fact, even if they don’t say anything, show them this blog. Please. I’m desperate. I live in an anarcho-capitalist commune where WordPress “likes” function as currency, and I’m in crippling debt to various ethnic mafias. And if one or several of them break my legs, I won’t be able to play tennis. 

The film also raises intense moral questions, like “I [31F] cheated on my [31M] husband with his ex-best friend [31M] because he didn’t care enough about tennis. AITA?” Indeed, forums online have been littered with people expressing support for team Art, or team Patrick. Who was the real bad guy? Was it the chad, overtly manipulative one, or the virgin, emotionally manipulative one? These discussions are hollow and devoid of meaning. There are no good guys (or girls) or bad guys (or girls) in tennis. No morality, no ethical code. Certainly no rules. There are winners and losers, and referees, and ball people, and spectators, and ad guys, and personal trainers. But no heroes or villains. This isn’t a Marvel movie, you mewling child. This is Challengers. Real, advanced shit. You need a PhD in PhDs in media studies (or whatever) to understand this film. Go back to Bluey.

Speaking of judging people unfairly, I’d like to apologize to Zendaya. In 2012, I wrote a scathing polemic declaring her glaring lack of talent compared to then-co-star Bella Thorne on hit Disney Channel original Shake it Up. The post was subsequently removed alongside the profile due to a violation of Facebook terms of service, as I was one year short of the requisite age to have an account (thirteen). At the time I believed Zendaya had reported me herself, and harbored seeds of resentment that evolved into vines of spite, sprouting grapes of vitriol that withered into my sole purpose for existence, my raisin d’etre. An intense and frankly scarring hallucinogenic psychosis has since revealed to me that it was in fact my nemesis, Emmy, who ratted on me in retaliation for replying to a picture she’d posted of her dog, Elvis, with, “haha youre [sic] dog is ugly.” Her sick dog was in fact ugly, due to the various diseases he’d acquired from aging and doing rock n’ roll. Elvis passed away the following year. Having heaved the ramshackles of hatred off me, I can now freely admit that I was wrong—Zendaya and Bella possess equal (considerable, formidable) talent. Challengers confirms this. Zendaya has immense screen presence in this film, at times filling as much as 80% of the screen. 

I was also fond of the two guys. People were likening them to a mouse and a rat but to me, they were different rodents entirely, like gerbils, or chinchillas. They seemed soft, at least. Good pets. 

If there were other actors in this movie I must have missed them. Too busy throwing up popcorn, catching it in my mouth, having it go down my throat weird, and throwing up popcorn. You know, cinephile stuff.

I do have several complaints. The POV shaky cam (camera) made me nauseous, and I abhorred the score. A loud, thumping synth beat? What is this, a Berlin nightclub? Do you want me to go into the bathroom and rail lines of ketamine? Step on used needles? Because I can. And I did. I’d say this film had un-sound mixing. 

Conclusion 

On net (and on the net), I’d say Challengers was a good movie about tennis. It made me want to get back on the court, which I will, as soon as I find someone to play with. That could take years. 

I hand this movie 3 out of 3 balls, and it throws one back to me. And thus, the game begins…