The Basketball Diaries (Scott Kalvert, 1995)
Another evening in, another astoundingly good performance from young Leo di C. I might be getting a bit obsessed with that boy. Basketball Diaries is the ultimate cautionary tale on the dangers of drug abuse. And, man, it was dark! Not quite so dark as Requiem for a Dream (Darren Aronofsky, 2000) of course... Now that really is THE ultimate cautionary tale... if it was, I wouldn’t be writing this blog; I’d be hiding under the bed.
Based on a true story, this is the tragedy of young Jim Carroll, a promising basketball champ at an oppressive Catholic School in NY. The opening half-hour features a slightly-predictable smorgasbord of run-o’-the-mill priestly/PE teacherly abuses, boys running amok like they own the place, but meaning no real harm, and one too many slo-mo dunks, just so you know HOW good at basketball our young hero is.
Naturally, things then begin to darken, beginning with some mild experimentation with pills, sex and snorting something out of tissues (my drug knowledge is not so hot!)... it follows a familiar trajectory as he disappears down the rabbit hole and heroin gradually rips his life apart. Before he hits rock bottom, Jim manages to be fired from the basketball team, quit school, be chucked out of home by his poor mother, to then turn to a life of crime and prostitution to fund his habit. Oh, and then he goes to prison.
Although rather harrowing and perhaps a little cliched, this is an excellent film, that really packs a punch, delivering it’s message without ever resorting to condescension, nor without losing sight of the fact you’re meant to be at least slightly entertained. The central pillar supporting the quality here is the sheer wealth of skilled performances on show. Not just from di Caprio, who is mind-blowingly, horribly convincing here… it’s a veritable who’s-who of young acting talent… Juliette Lewis as a local prostitute, Marky Mark Whalburg as the fellow spiraller, but without the heart of gold (he doesn’t just mug old ladies, he kicks them while they’re down too, the bastard). Best of all, it features a cold-turkey intervention courtesy of Reggie - played by the fourth Ghostbuster himself (Ernie Hudson, of course).
As one might expect (and hope), in the end, Carroll gets clean and devotes the last scene (and an unfortunate ‘curtain’ hair-cut) to some inspirational theatre/public speaking, cataloging the dangers of his 'dope-head' lifestlye, just in case the warning wasn’t hammered home hard enough.
In short, a Good (capital G), worthy and challenging film, but not exactly a Friday-nighter.
Image from IGN.com - with thanks
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