Challengers
One of the things that may be apocryphal—because I’ve never bothered to actually look it up, just kept it kicking around in my head—is David Foster Wallace’s justification for the emphasis on footnotes in Infinite Jest: that they’re meant to be a physical metaphor for the give-and-take of a tennis match. You flip from the start of the book to the very end dozens, then hundreds of times, until you get to the final chapters where the flipping becomes more like leafing, as you get closer and closer to the edge of the net and the boundary of the story itself.
Whether intentionally or not—or perhaps Justin Kuritzkes, the screenwriter, heard the same apocryphal DFW story—this emphasis on the flow of a ball between two objects is present throughout Challengers. It’s not just in the main framing device, as we bounce between the present day, the titular challenger match, and various flashbacks that help situate us and explain how everything has led to this moment. It’s also there in the ending scene, which I’m still digesting, but which clearly understands the metaphorical power of the exchange.
When talking about this movie, you have to start or end with the love triangle that is its rhizomatic core. Which is a shame, because, honestly, that’s the one thing I didn’t really care about. Or at least, it wasn’t the part of the movie that moved me. What I loved about these three people is that they all felt legitimate. I said this yesterday about Quiz Show—and a longer time ago about The Secret History—that with powerful personalities and performances, you skate a very thin line between believability and caricature. But all three leads thread that needle perfectly. I got lost in their performances in the best possible way. Every dynamic felt true and real, and even the period-piece flashbacks—with their de-aging via mid-2000s haircuts and cargo shorts—felt legitimate.
Zendaya has always been a bit of a cipher for me, and this was the first film where I felt like I understood her magnetism and talent. Even if she can’t quite play “motherhood,” you could argue that’s part of the text. I get that. But the hair, makeup, and wardrobe don’t really transport her far enough into that phase of life.
All of this ignores the feeling of the movie, which is not just athletic but outright hedonistic. Every scene is punctuated by over-the-top, non-diegetic sound. I was surprised to see how many people loved the Reznor/Ross score—there were moments where I thought it worked well, but overall it felt incredibly overbearing to me.
Still, the movie is never sloppy and never boring. You can absolutely have quibbles with almost anything about it, but I’d be happier in a world where there were many more films like this: funny, a little messy but not too messy, exciting, and willing to take swings.
In a word: worthwhile.