REVIEW – Humorous “Uncle Drew” So Unsure of Where It Stands as Sports Film

by Joe Hammerschmidt

Every summer, audiences will be treated to some form of throwback picture, no matter how subtle. Last year, Baywatch proved a direct comparison to a cheesy 90s beach drama can’t always be a home run. In 2018, we’re reminded of the power of creative advertising and its connection to sports, namely basketball. In a feature adaptation of a series of wildly popular Pepsi ads featuring past and present NBA legends, Uncle Drew is simply accomplishing the same feats managed by the spotless duo of Michael Jackson and Bugs Bunny in their seamless gravitation from American Express spots to the animated/live-action hybrid guilty pleasure pic Space Jam. Difference here, due to a shoddy script handled by Jay Longino (last known for the sparsely ignored Skiptrace), its relatively restrained crudeness (thankfully not at Madea levels), predictable character development, and honest lack of compelling originality may make this flash-in-the-pan parody of more reputable underdogs less worthy of leaving an impression 20 years in the future. Its use of a mostly b-ball focused cast, and the lengths they each went to transform into characters 20 to 30 years their senior was enough to keep me invested in a rather one-note film which wears out its welcome all too quickly.

At the mark of a 50th-anniversary celebration of a legendary streetball tournament in the heart of Harlem, energetic coach, fanboy, and shy Foot Locker salesman Dax (Get Out scene-stealer Lil Rel Howery) knowingly burns through all his life savings to give his team, the Harlem Money the chance to play. Immediately after, the team is stolen away by his longtime rival, the rather chauvinistic Mookie (Nick Kroll), his steady girlfriend Jess (an underused Tiffany Haddish) dumps him, taking Mookie in with her and he’s left without an apartment. With the cash prize of $100k looming large on his mind, he immediately resorts to recruiting a few aging players he may possess an encyclopedic knowledge towards, after a random meeting with an old man claiming to be the elusive Uncle Drew (an unbelievably enjoyable Kyrie Irving), a considerable holy figure of the sport who himself played the first Rucker Classic, and would go to extremes to take one more shot at the playing field.

All this occurs in a poorly paced 20 minute period from beginning to when the film really gets interesting, through a completely inessential road trip down south to what Drew calls “Chocolate City”, but may just be the suburbs of Atlanta. It’s all for an impromptu reunion with the religious Preacher (Chris Webber), the legally blind Lights (Reggie Miller), martial arts expert Big Fella (Shaquille O’Neal), and the wheelchair-bound Boots (Nate Robinson). The goal: get the old team back together within a rather breakneck 72 hour period back to Harlem for the first round, and a second shot at redemption.

At its deepest core, the aspect of an honest underdog tale interjected by some oddball laughs should be enough to make the journey worth the price of admission and director Charles Stone III (Drumline) is hellbent on assuring us of that truth in every way possible. That is until the silly zaniness reached a point of massive overkill; I must’ve been the only individual in my screening audience not to find any of the enticing gags, car chases, and scene-stopping dance scenes hilarious. Perhaps it’s never the type of thing one would expect to be accomplished out of a quintet of former septuagenarian athletes, which lends itself to plenty of welcome silliness. I can already imagine a second viewing could possibly open me up to latching on to that humor initially considered impossible to follow with.

Maybe I couldn’t take it too seriously because Stone, Longino and their actors chose not to take the work seriously and just try to have fun for their sake. I’m all for that, but not when it leads to a certain shift out of the intended goal. This is still a sports movie, even if it’s also one rooted heavily aware in fiction and a wild ocean of meta-humor, plenty of which I didn’t pick up on. What wasn’t impossible to connect with, was the performers themselves, most with no feature film experience, but who all know each other as part of the infamous source material. By way of an Oscar-worthy makeup job, led by the fantastic Patrice Coleman (All Eyez on Me), Irving is almost unrecognizable in the compelling title part, a total curmudgeon breaking free from the shackles of age. Classic pros Robinson and Miller are like seasoned legends in their seamless transition, while Shaq is just Shaq, no changing a man who’s already a pinnacle of true success. Even Lisa Leslie’s in on the joke with a more subtle transformation which speaks volumes. With Rel in the driver’s seat, figuratively speaking as part of one of the more awkward recurring gags throughout, and whose star value rises quite comfortably here in his first lead role, ahead of a fall TV sitcom bow, their combined passion toward the sports themes will be enough for those ardent fans.

They may be able to overlook the flaws I simply couldn’t ignore. As said, the level of positivity experienced in filming translates very well on screen. It’s the material itself that does each performer a slight disservice. It’s lazy, reliant on overused troped, and painfully predictable. The opening act runs too quickly, rushing through a hastily edited fake documentary clip package with customary interviews. The middle third is way too gimmicky in establishing the kooky characters, and by the time we reach actual gameplay, the characters’ collective quirks have too easily weighed down the plot, so much that no one is as remotely likable as in their first introductions. Stone is no less concerned toward structural integrity as he is about the short-term thrills, the slim minutiae instead of the umbrella covering the points spread. We’re even treated to an extended end credits montage sharing the moments of purest joy between the crew, and by then I nearly wanted it all to be over so badly. Its meager source material could only be stretched so far, props to Longino for finding ways to make it feature length; they just weren’t the right courses to take.

Irving and his fellow league vets seem unfazed by the roadblocks bound to keep them from spreading a newfound joy, newcomer Rel fitting into their tight-knit community like a glove, and the collective just strolling past all their obstacles like a good team does, as good sports with a keen eye for competition. Not that this comedy will have much against them for other deep genre laughers this summer, nor will it not have much trouble being seen by the right audience its opening weekend and all weekends after, given how much the game of basketball had seen an increased vitality in years past. Like another summer comic blunder, last year’s near-equal Girls Trip, I struggled to laugh, almost refused it, but could sense maybe this wasn’t as terrible as I’m likely to make it out to be. It could actually be worth seeing Uncle Drew more than once if the message goes past one’s head first time around, its promised potential between a dashing lead against an utterly predictable plot stew doesn’t mess, it’s out to play, and either one is in to see the final score, or sitting out. I’m willing to go in again, see how much it changes, grows, builds its lore, much like the classic b-ball films of the 90s. Time really determine the final fate, sooner rather than later. (C-)

Uncle Drew opens in most area theaters this weekend; rated PG-13 for