The deck is stacked heavily in favor of King Richard’s protagonist. He’s crowned as the hero in the movie’s title, and his daughters, also key characters, are executive producers. Right from the beginning, then, things don’t sit right with me. I question the value of a “biopic” made with its own subjects’ approval in mind, other than as fan service; the usual purpose of biography is to illuminate truths that the subjects may not want to come to light, in order to supplement, round out, or even contradict the popular image. Since King Richard, as it turns out, is not interested in doing that, there’s little reason to see it.
The film is the latest in a burgeoning and dubious genre, which I call the “celebration” movie. This genre aims not to portray reality but to honor and even promote megastars who surely don’t need the press. The last celebration movie nominated for Best Picture was 2018’s Bohemian Rhapsody, which also solicited creative input from its living characters. The result was at best a genial nostalgia trip for Queen fans—and at worst a two hour commercial for the band. (Sales of their music, of course, skyrocketed following the release.) Notably, Bohemian Rhapsody garnered unexpected award success, especially with Rami Malek winning Best Actor for his portrayal of Freddie Mercury. This year, Will Smith is the overwhelming favorite to win the same prize.
Smith does a fine job as Richard Williams, father of tennis prodigies Venus and Serena Williams, but, as with Malek’s Mercury, something feels missing from the portrayal due to the film’s goal of lionizing his character. In King Richard’s best scene, Richard’s wife Oracene (Aunjanue Ellis) confronts him about his supposed narcissism, accusing him of putting his own needs above his daughters’. She even claims that, if not for Venus and Serena, she would have left him long ago. But this scene belongs in an entirely different, more honest movie. Because we haven’t seen Richard do anything that would warrant this tirade. In fact, he’s been shown to be a loving (if stubborn) husband and a dedicated (if tough) dad.
Oracene’s words, then, are only a glimpse of what director Reinaldo Green has chosen to withhold from us. Without having seen the truth for ourselves, we’re reduced to the position of the girls listening at the top of the stairs: thinking, what is this all about?
There are many similarly false notes in this film that hint at the heavily filtered nature of what we’re seeing. But perhaps the most discordant of all is the persistently smiley reaction of Venus and Serena to their father’s harsh methods. In one scene, he takes them out to hit balls in pouring rain, and both girls laugh and grin throughout. Something’s awry.
And maybe this is beside the point, but I couldn’t help wondering whether some innocent reputations were torched in the quest to promote a few already-great ones. Jennifer Capriati, who would later return from personal troubles to become the top ranked player in the world, is implied to be a flamed-out delinquent. Arantxa Vicario, the first Spanish woman to be inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame, is portrayed as a White Goodmen-esque dirty trickster.
But these issues all come down to the same thing: artistic integrity. When the goal of a film is to “celebrate”—not to illustrate—there are going to be inevitable mistakes and distortions. King Richard is not a great film and, unlike Bohemian Rhapsody, did poorly at the box office. Hopefully that will dampen the enthusiasm for similar future projects, which, I’m sure, celebrities are lining up to lend their names to. Who wouldn’t want to be the subject of a movie like this?
-Jim Andersen
For more movie reviews, check out my review of Licorice Pizza.