Set in the lap-dancing capital of Las Vegas, the story follows Rev. Fred Sultan's (a boxing promoter played with King-like flamboyance by Samuel L. Jackson) blatantly racist plan to revive ticket sales and pay-per-view profits. People are tired of paying to see "[blacks] beating up [blacks]," says the Sultan, initiating a search for a white contender to face the heavyweight champ, James "The Grim Reaper" Roper (Damon Wayans). With the help of his succulent assistant, the mega-promoter finds his Great White Hope fronting for the Cleveland rock band Massive Head Wound.
Terry Conklin (Peter Berg), who once beat the champ in a Golden Gloves bout, has become preoccupied with more peaceful pursuits in recent years: his music, Buddhism and fighting world poverty. Before you can say rope-a-dope, the dim but earnest rocker is punching cow carcasses in Vegas. -- Rita Kempley

By Eric Brace
Washington Post Staff Writer
May 03, 1996

Samuel L. Jackson says more with an arch of an eyebrow than most actors can say with their entire inventory of tricks. Watching Jackson is the principal plea sure of "The Great White Hype," a comic film set in the exaggerated world of heavyweight boxing.

Jackson plays the Reverend Fred Sultan, a boxing promoter (inspired by the already larger-than-life Don King) with an undefeated heavyweight champion on his hands but whose empire is threatened by the public's declining interest in the sport. His solution is to find a white opponent for James "The Grim Reaper" Roper (Damon Wayans, who has found the perfect character for his limited range) to gin up white America's interest in a title fight.

The only white contenders are glass-jawed and shaped like potatoes so the Reverend searches out Terry Conklin (played with slack-jawed blankness by the slack-jawed and blank Peter Berg), the only man to beat Roper, back in his amateur days. Sultan finds Conklin playing in a Cleveland grunge band, preaching love and nonviolence, but a promise of big bucks ("Do it for the homeless," coos Sultan) brings Conklin to Las Vegas.

Other than the tired metaphor of Las Vegas as America's Sodom, the dramatic buildup to the fight is artfully constructed by director Reginald Hudlin (best known for "House Party"). Watching Roper's physical decline (his laziness gives him a nasty belly, ripe for the punching) actually sparks a viewer's worry over how he'll do in the ring. A subplot involving a legitimate contender trying to get a shot at Roper gives Jamie Foxx (as the contender's manager) several chances to confront Sultan in scenes that are comic without sacrificing the dramatic narrative.

But the film falls down when it refuses to take on its presumed premise: Power corrupts. Here, it only corrupts those around it. At the film's beginning, Jeff Goldblum is playing a documentary filmmaker bent on exposing Sultan as "evil incarnate." He claims to have the goods on the promoter but is soon co-opted into Sultan's camp. All the fighters, Vegas beauties and media folk end up cheerily bending to Sultan's wishes. What could have been a deeper portrait of the abuse of power turns into a lesson in how to do whatever it takes to get your way.

Jackson's portrayal of Sultan is masterly, with his snake-charmer eyes and devilish smile turning into chilling stares and tight-lipped anger in a heartbeat, but Jackson seems torn over whether to use his skills for laughs (which seems to be Hudlin's goal) or something more.

By Rita Kempley
Washington Post Staff Writer
May 03, 1996

A spleen-venting parody of prizefighting, "The Great White Hype" comes out swinging at the hucksters, hoteliers and other heathens. The lampooners land a lucky punch or two, but when the fight is finished, the opponents are still standing up as defiantly as Don King's hair.

A cynical inversion of "Rocky's" fistic fairy tale, the film centers on the Rev. Fred Sultan, a boxing promoter played with King-like flamboyance by Samuel L. Jackson. Clad in a gaudy turban, pasha's PJs and more gold than King Tut, the "Pulp Fiction" star is even less subtle than his wardrobe. His portrayal is annoyingly cartoonish, but then again so is Don King.

Set in the lap-dancing capital of Las Vegas, the story follows the Sultan's blatantly racist plan to revive ticket sales and pay-per-view profits. People are tired of paying to see "[blacks] beating up [blacks]," says the Sultan, initiating a search for a white contender to face the heavyweight champ, James "The Grim Reaper" Roper (glowering Damon Wayans).

With the help of his succulent assistant (Salli Richardson), the mega-promoter finds his Great White Hope fronting for the Cleveland rock band Massive Head Wound. Terry Conklin (riotous Peter Berg), who once beat the champ in a Golden Gloves bout, has become preoccupied with more peaceful pursuits in recent years: his music, Buddhism and fighting world poverty.

Content with Cleveland and his causes, Conklin isn't interested in a rematch until the savvy Sultan suggests he donate his $10 million purse to the homeless. Before you can say rope-a-dope, the dim but earnest rocker is punching cow carcasses in Vegas. The embittered champ doesn't bother to train. The only thing he lifts is his spoon -- usually loaded with ice cream.

At the weigh-in, Roper looks like he ought to be heading for a maternity ward instead of a boxing ring. "Irish" Conklin, on the other hand, is trim and toned. Perhaps there really is some hope for the "Fight of the Millennium." Nah.

Ron Shelton, who shares writing credits with Tony Hendra, formerly editor-in-chief of Spy magazine, must have bowed to Hendra's snotty sensibilities. Shelton's affection for athletes and love of sport -- so obvious in "Bull Durham," "The Best of Times" and "White Men Can't Jump" -- is rarely in evidence. There were more laughs in the Tyson-McNeeley bout.

And aside from the hilariously dense Conklin and the manager of the No. 1 contender, Hassan El Ruk'n (quixotic Jamie Foxx), there's nobody worth rooting for. From the president of the WBI (Cheech Marin) to a muckraking filmmaker (Jeff Goldblum), everybody is corrupt or corrupted by the Sultan's promises of wealth, glory or one of the tempting tartlets strewn about the sets like satin throw pillows.

Reginald Hudlin, who made his debut as the writer-director of the sweet-naturedly raucous "House Party," doesn't really connect with this sour screed. Like the rest of us, he seems to be searching for the heart of it. Certainly boxing has its seedy side and its shady characters, but "The Great White Hype" doesn't skewer them -- it just lists them. Maybe you've got to love something to properly send it up.