HOME COURT: HOOPS, HURDLES AND HEART
The probable target audience for Home Court consists of those who find joy in playing basketball themselves or those who happily watch from the stands or on television. (Right now, college and professional games dominate TV schedules—it’s called March Madness.) But what if you’re not particularly thrilled by the sight of players tossing that bright orange sphere around? If the appeal of chasing the ball and the hoopla of dunking it through a hoop escapes you, can a film change that? By personalizing the experience—profiling a dedicated player on and off the court, offering insight into what makes her tick (and dribble)—it seems possible that a documentary could foster understanding. Could non-sports fans connect to the emotions behind the relentless drive and determination? It’s not a slam dunk.
Director Erica Tanamachi attempts to win over basketball-resistant viewers by turning the camera on Ashley, a tenacious teen team captain. Determined and laser-focused, she keeps her eyes both on the ball and on her future, navigating college choices while sprinting across the gym floor, weaving through opponents, and shooting for the stars—and the basket. Her team competes for the state championship, and since she and her fellow high school athletes are featured so prominently, it’s likely the film is primarily aimed at a younger audience. It’s no surprise, then, that Home Court found a place at the International Children’s Film Festival.
Beyond basketball, the film explores issues of identity and belonging. Ashley’s Cambodian heritage places her in a stark minority, and she encounters prejudice both on and off the court. A particularly striking moment acknowledges the Japanese-American basketball teams formed in internment camps during World War II—a brief but impactful historical connection.
The 98-minute documentary blends DP Brian Inocencio‘s footage of practice, pep talks, scolding from coaches, high-stakes game play, and teary team huddles. Off the court, we see Ashley with her family—at their donut shop, at home, visiting prospective colleges. Some scenes feel dynamic and revealing, others mundane. Music cues by Gene Back and voiceovers attempt to inject drama and energy, but at times, the film feels like a hybrid of high school sports highlights and home movies with a touch of reality TV’s tedious minutiae. Do we really need to watch Ashley brushing her teeth, packing a suitcase, or grinding through her gym routine? A more focused edit by Jean Kawahara could have strengthened the narrative.
Family tensions provide some emotional depth, particularly the strained relationship between Ashley and her mother. When regrets surface about lost time and unspoken affection, the mother-daughter moments land with an emotional punch. But the climactic catharsis—Mom tearfully vowing that her dying words will be “I love you”—veers into melodrama.
On the court, the documentary captures the raw energy of the game: the squeals of delight, the sting of penalties, the heated protests over fouls. But in quieter, reflective moments, Ashley struggles to articulate her thoughts as fluently as she plays. Like many of her peers, she leans heavily on filler words. One verbatim example: “I just hope that I—like—created this—like—persona of—like—Ashley and—like—I hope my teammates see it and then it’s—like—‘oh my gosh—like—we are gonna miss her’—not because of—like—basketball-wise but—like—‘Oh my God, —like—we are gonna miss Ashley—the person.’” It’s a distraction that the filmmakers might have mitigated through selective editing.
Home Court isn’t for everyone. Some will find inspiration in Ashley’s determination, while others will be left cold by the backboard and backstory, feeling blocked from truly caring. But that’s the way the ball bounces.
Home Court
Asian Ballers LLC
2024| 98 minutes | US/Cambodia
in English and Khmer with English subtitles
recommended ages 10+
theatres, festivals, special screenings, and on PBS stations as of March 25, 2025
for more info, visit Home Court Film
