It would be tempting to dismiss Sanaa Hamri's new romantic comedy as a jovial but ultimately forgettable spin through an alternate universe in which the New Jersey Nets have made it to the playoffs and basketball stars pump their own gas. But despite the undeniable charm of the performers involved - most prominently, Queen Latifah, Paula Patton, and the hip-hop artist Common - Just Wright is both gratingly sentimental and abhorrently dull, the kind of uninspired and humorless film in which an overbearing score and a veritable cavalcade of rock, soul, jazz, and R&B songs underline almost every emotion.
The premise is a not-unfamiliar love triangle transposed to the world of basketball: Nets star player Scott McKnight (Common) has a chance meeting with Leslie Wright (Latifah), a confidently thick physical therapist and dedicated "Jersey Girl" who is charmed by his talent and class - he opens the door to her clunky Mustang for her. But these virtues are second-run to Leslie's godsister Morgan (Patton), the sort of flagrant gold-digger who sleeps with a dollar-bill-covered teddy bear. At McKnight's birthday party, it's Morgan who initially piques the athlete's interest and eventually gets him to pop the question, but a career-crippling knee injury puts a damper on things. Threatened by a blonde celebrity physical therapist, Morgan calls in Leslie to work on hubby-to-be (and secret piano virtuoso), right before she breaks their engagement and leaves McKnight alone to grieve and rehabilitate with our heroine.
The conflict of cover-girl looks vs. home-girl personality has been written across a few thousand scripts before, and it's a shame to see such a limp retread coming from screenwriter Michael Elliot, who was responsible for the far more enjoyable Brown Sugar. Thanks to Elliot's clunky, obvious script, the affability of the three leads wears off by the time McKnight begins physical therapy, and what remains is an unfocused flurry of lazy scenes bereft of anything as high-minded as chemistry or wit.
But Elliot's script cannot be fully blamed for a film that has been made with such shameless indifference towards story and humor, not to mention coherence. Hamri has taken an interest in what might crudely be called "women's pictures," a specialized genre in which her star has flourished. My very real hope is that most women will cringe throughout a film that so broadly splits femininity into two bland and one-dimensional sects. On one side, Patton's "bad" girl offers glimmers of something deeper, but these instances are abrupt and handled dismissively. As for Latifah's "good" girl, she's so earthy and saintly that to suggest any real flaws would be tantamount to blasphemy. She's the sort of laid-back daddy's girl that can only smile warmly when her father, in the midst of botching a remodeling job on her house, asserts that everything "just needs a tweak." An endearing moment, sure, but a similar assertion could never be made about Just Wright.
The premise is a not-unfamiliar love triangle transposed to the world of basketball: Nets star player Scott McKnight (Common) has a chance meeting with Leslie Wright (Latifah), a confidently thick physical therapist and dedicated "Jersey Girl" who is charmed by his talent and class - he opens the door to her clunky Mustang for her. But these virtues are second-run to Leslie's godsister Morgan (Patton), the sort of flagrant gold-digger who sleeps with a dollar-bill-covered teddy bear. At McKnight's birthday party, it's Morgan who initially piques the athlete's interest and eventually gets him to pop the question, but a career-crippling knee injury puts a damper on things. Threatened by a blonde celebrity physical therapist, Morgan calls in Leslie to work on hubby-to-be (and secret piano virtuoso), right before she breaks their engagement and leaves McKnight alone to grieve and rehabilitate with our heroine.
The conflict of cover-girl looks vs. home-girl personality has been written across a few thousand scripts before, and it's a shame to see such a limp retread coming from screenwriter Michael Elliot, who was responsible for the far more enjoyable Brown Sugar. Thanks to Elliot's clunky, obvious script, the affability of the three leads wears off by the time McKnight begins physical therapy, and what remains is an unfocused flurry of lazy scenes bereft of anything as high-minded as chemistry or wit.
But Elliot's script cannot be fully blamed for a film that has been made with such shameless indifference towards story and humor, not to mention coherence. Hamri has taken an interest in what might crudely be called "women's pictures," a specialized genre in which her star has flourished. My very real hope is that most women will cringe throughout a film that so broadly splits femininity into two bland and one-dimensional sects. On one side, Patton's "bad" girl offers glimmers of something deeper, but these instances are abrupt and handled dismissively. As for Latifah's "good" girl, she's so earthy and saintly that to suggest any real flaws would be tantamount to blasphemy. She's the sort of laid-back daddy's girl that can only smile warmly when her father, in the midst of botching a remodeling job on her house, asserts that everything "just needs a tweak." An endearing moment, sure, but a similar assertion could never be made about Just Wright.
