"Now to the bottom line: Are these ‘five better films' than "Hoop Dreams?" I would say they are not. "Hoop Dreams" was a film that cut to the bone, that gave us the sensation of watching lives unfold. It told more about the lives of young black men in American cities than any other film I have seen," wrote Roger Ebert in 1995.
Directed by Steve James, "Hoop Dreams" had already garnered attention a year prior when Ebert declared it the "best documentary of all time" in his four-star review. But this infamous quote comes from a later piece, "Anatomy of a Snub," where Ebert took aim at the Academy for routinely sidelining films like "Hoop Dreams," "The Thin Blue Line," and "Paris is Burning."
"Hoop Dreams," now reaching the ripe age of 30, opened to an Ebert-endorsed, slow-building acclaim in 1994, barely earning a respectable degree of recognition in the larger festival space. The movie, easily dismissible as low-budget sports fluff and a less commercially viable contender for the Oscars by some, was a piece of cinema that director Ava DuVernay once described as one that "changed the way [she] views film," and is widely regarded as one of the greatest documentaries ever made.
So, what shifted? Word of mouth, for one, and a growing appreciation for its themes of ambition, race, and socioeconomic struggle that transcended its label as a mere sports documentary. "Hoop Dreams" had no business so radical, but it was in every respect: a five-year gaze into the lives of two young Black men, Arthur Agee and William Gates, from Chicago's inner city, pursuing a basketball dream as told in 1994, just two years after the Rodney King riots.
"Hoop Dreams" has proved far more influential than many could have imagined 30 years ago. Whether it's longitudinal documentary storytelling or sports films that intersect with societal and economic themes, there are vestiges of "Hoop Dreams" in all of them.
For his part, James recognizes the lasting influence of a film he'd once hoped would simply secure a "decent time slot on public television," noting how it continues to resonate with new generations. He's still surprised by its impact, especially by how it has become essential viewing for aspiring basketball players and those interested in broader cultural narratives.
RogerEbert.com recently had the opportunity to sit down with him to discuss the film's enduring legacy, its unexpected trajectory, and the evolving yet persistent challenges it portrays.
With 30 years having gone since "Hoop Dreams," have you taken a moment to really sit back and reflect on the impact it's had over the years? Does it still wow you?
I continue to be surprised [laughs]. I mean, the fact that I'm talking about it right now, 30 years later, is surreal. When we made it, I had modest hopes. I knew it was meaningful to me and my colleagues, but I thought it would just interest basketball fans. I had no idea what kind of legacy it would leave behind. I was just hoping for a decent time slot on public television [laughs], because back then, if people didn't tune in, they missed it—you couldn't DVR or stream on demand.
What's surprised me over the years, in a nice way, is how newer generations of basketball players have come to it. I've heard anecdotally that the people who watched it when it first came out are now parents, and they're showing it to their kids who are aspiring hoopers. It's kind of become a must-watch for people pursuing basketball. But it's more than just the sport; it touches on larger cultural issues, and I think that's why it's able to remain relevant.
On the film side, it was one of the rare documentaries at the time that got a genuine theatrical release, and that helped cement its place in film culture as well. I'm still amazed at how it has endured.
But not everything about its legacy is positive. People tell me they watch "Hoop Dreams" now, and yeah, the haircuts have changed, basketball shorts are longer, and the business of basketball has mushroomed since we made it. But one of the lasting legacies, which isn't a positive one, is that there are still plenty of young Black kids from poor neighbourhoods who see sports as a viable way out. That hasn't changed, and that's unfortunate. It still has relevance in what it says about American culture, and unfortunately, I would've hoped that would've evolved by now.
And that's a part of the legacy, how layered it was about just that. Given the way you talk about basketball, it's obvious that it played a significant role in drawing you to this project. But can you reflect on how your initial vision for "Hoop Dreams" evolved to this very nuanced perspective that also delves into this idea of the American dream while Black?
Well, when we started, I was still playing basketball—just recreationally at that point—but it was still a big part of my life. The initial impulse to make the film came from my own experiences growing up playing basketball. I had Black teammates starting in junior high, especially in high school, and even for a year in college. But it wasn't until I was in grad school, playing basketball in my free time, that I had this realization: I didn't really know the deeper significance of basketball in the lives of some of my Black teammates, beyond just it being a game we played.
The role that basketball played in their lives and their families' lives—that's what I became interested in really exploring. Initially, the idea was to focus on street basketball, which I thought would make for a fun and meaningful film. But once we met Arthur Agee and William Gates, the direction shifted. Instead of focusing on the street game, we followed these two young kids who were using basketball as a way to do more for themselves and their families.
Fairly early on, we had a sense of the broad themes we wanted to explore, like the role of basketball in their lives and the struggles they faced. But we never anticipated it would turn into a nearly five-year shooting journey. We certainly didn't foresee the film becoming the story that it did, or that it would leave the legacy it has today. We had intentions of addressing some of the issues the film covers, but not on the scale or in the depth it ultimately reached.
"Hoop Dreams" became a film school staple, not just for its focus on NBA prospects, but again, the three dimensions it brought to the table. As a documentarian who obviously wasn't a young Black man at the time, how did you manage to avoid the common pitfalls of manipulating facts and avoiding bias?
I appreciate you acknowledging that. When we started the project, we were already thinking about these issues, even though it wasn't as discussed then as it is now. We knew we were telling a story about young Black men and their families, and in turn, we wanted to have Black crew members involved. I actively tried to hire a Black cameraman and sound person because I thought it was important for the nature of the story. But unfortunately, there were very few Black cameramen working at the time. The few who were in the industry were already employed, and we needed freelancers to own their gear. Equipment could cost $60,000 or $70,000 in the late '80s—an astronomical amount, even now. So, despite our efforts, we ended up with three white guys making the film (Steve James, Peter Gilbert, and Frederick Marx).
That said, I think what helped us approach the story authentically was that we didn't come in thinking we knew everything. We were there to understand something we didn't fully know. We loved basketball, but beyond that, we were committed to putting in the time to really get to know these families and their lives. I think my own experience, having played on a mostly Black basketball team in high school, gave me some sensitivity, but we knew we were outsiders.
Initially, we looked at people like Arthur's mom as symbols of something—like the rock of the household who won't give up on her family. But as we spent more time with them, they became as you said, more three-dimensional, real people to us. We were privileged to tell their stories.
One moment that sticks with me is when an uncle of mine, who lived in California and barely knew me, took me to lunch after "Hoop Dreams" had gained some attention. He said, "Until I saw this film, I had no idea Black families wanted the same things for their kids as I do." I almost couldn't believe it. I was like, "How could you not know that?" (laughs) Why would you need a film to show you that? But that's part of what the film did—it opened people's eyes to the universal nature of these families' hopes and struggles.
There were a lot of other voices integral in terms of giving "Hoop Dreams" the street cred it needed, not just from a critique standpoint, but as a cultural one. Getting Spike Lee to comment in the ‘90s must have been a major aid.
Absolutely, what happened with Spike was interesting. We didn't actually meet him while making the film. He was at a Nike camp, but we didn't cross paths there because he was Spike Lee, and we were just there filming. I didn't meet Spike until after the film was completed. What happened was the people who bought our film had this idea to consider making a dramatic remake of "Hoop Dreams" after it had gained popularity.
At the time, I was like, "Really? A remake?" But they paid money for the rights, so I rolled with it. And it wasn't just us as filmmakers benefitting financially—we were sharing the money that "Hoop Dreams" made with the families and the boys themselves. So when there was an opportunity to get more money, everyone was pretty supportive. We were like, "Sure, go ahead with the remake idea."
They actually reached out to Spike. They called him up and asked, "What if Spike Lee was the executive producer on the remake of Hoop Dreams?" I thought, "That would be amazing!" That's when we met.
A "Hoop Dreams" remake…
Right? But then Spike Lee did something even more remarkable. When the film premiered—after Sundance, it was set to close the New York Film Festival. This was the first time a documentary had ever opened or closed the festival, so it was a big deal. There was a big dinner beforehand with a lot of the blue-blood supporters of the festival—mostly rich, older white people, to be honest. But we had the families there too. We made sure the families attended both the dinner and the screening.
And then, out of nowhere, Spike showed up at the dinner. We weren't expecting him. The families just went crazy—they got about a thousand different pictures with him. We were excited too, but for the families, it was huge. I'll never forget when Spike pulled me aside during one of the photos and said, "Hey man, it's a monumental piece of work."
That meant so much to me, because this was Spike Lee, and for all the reasons we've been discussing already, his words carried so much weight. It's something I'll never forget.
Now, nothing ever came of the remake in the end, which is probably a good thing honestly. I don't think it was needed. Spike was involved through several drafts of the script, but then New Line Cinema did some market research and basically said, "Yeah, no one's really asking for a remake of Hoop Dreams." We were kind of like, "Yeah, we didn't think so either." But, hey, thanks for spending the money!
Given all that you mentioned in terms of the legacy, how do you reflect on its absence from the Oscar nominations for Best Documentary 30 years later? Roger Ebert's anger famously reflected the sentiments of many at the time.
Yeah, there was a lot of talk back then that "Hoop Dreams" would likely get nominated for Best Documentary, and some people even thought it might earn a Best Picture nomination. Our distributor, Fine Line, was really pushing that narrative. They were hoping that at least one of those nominations would come through. But then neither happened. We did get an editing nomination, and since I was one of the editors, I got to attend the ceremony. But it wasn't in the way we had expected.
I remember that morning vividly—the day the nominations were announced. The production company had gathered local press, expecting it to be a big, celebratory moment. And when the nomination didn't come, the press immediately saw that they had a new kind of story—a snub. But honestly, I wasn't shocked. I knew other films had been snubbed before, like "The Thin Blue Line." So I wasn't surprised that "Hoop Dreams" didn't get it.
Frankly, I never saw the Oscars as a definitive measure of quality. Sometimes they get it right, sometimes they don't—like any awards show. I wasn't personally invested in winning an Oscar as much as others might have been.
Roger Ebert was quite vocal about "Hoop Dreams" not getting nominated in more ways than one.
Yeah, I went home, and not long after, my phone rang. It was Roger. I had met him once at a dinner in Toronto, but I didn't really know him. He was sitting at the other end of the table, so we didn't get to chat much. So when he called me, it was a bit of a surprise. I'll never forget it. He goes, "It's Roger Ebert." I was like, "Oh." And he says, "I am outraged." And I said, "Oh yeah?" He asked, "What are you feeling?" I told him, "Well, Roger, I kind of take the long view on this." He cut me off and said, "You're not going to say anything, are you?" I replied, "No, not really." Then he hung up, likely disappointed (laughs).
But it's true—I did take the long view. So many incredible things had already happened to us by that point. We had won several critics' awards, and Arthur had been visited by the President of the United States at his college. These things made the Oscar snub feel less significant to me. Plus, I was still nominated for editing, so I got to be there at the ceremony. I even sat next to the guy who won the editing Oscar that year.
In later years, other films I made were expected to get nominated but didn't. At some point, I just thought, "It either happens, or it doesn't."
It might sound like I don't care about the Oscars, but I would love to have one. Still, I've been lucky, especially with a film like "Hoop Dreams" that didn't need an Oscar for people to remember it. People still come up to me and say, "You won the Oscar for Hoop Dreams, right?" And I just nod, even though it didn't. The value of an Oscar win is just—especially for a documentary—it just puts the film in a different public light. Documentaries can always use more awareness.
Sometimes, the documentary that wins is like the little engine that could—it gets a lot of attention because of the win. Other times, it's a higher-profile doc, and winning is just icing on the cake.
There's an argument that's been made that award festivals tend to favor urgent, headline-grabbing topics in their doc selections, despite them still being great—"The Fog of War" during the Iraq War or "Navalny" in context to Alexei Navalny's imprisonment at the time come to mind. Do you see that pressure to be more topical now, or urgent? I'd love to hear your perspective as someone who made a documentary that might not have fit within that category in 1994.
I think there's logic in that, along with the trend of focusing on celebrity profiles or high-profile figures as well, whether they're traditional celebrities, politicians, or infamous individuals. It's likely always been that way to some extent. For instance, there was a belief that "Fahrenheit 9/11" might have helped Bush get re-elected because of the backlash it created. Whether that's true or not, it was such a culturally significant film at the time because it addressed what we were living through.
Documentaries are designed to reflect current events, especially with traditional journalism stepping back from in-depth investigations. That's a good thing, as people are naturally drawn to familiar figures, like Taylor Swift. But the downside is that the most adventurous documentaries often aren't about headline topics. They tell stories about people or events you didn't even know you needed to learn about, which is the lasting contribution of documentaries.
The challenge now is that documentaries have become victims of their commercial success. Distributors are focusing more on celebrity, current events, and crime—especially crime. While there's great work in those areas, it sometimes pushes out more unique, unexpected stories. Some filmmakers even feel that algorithms are influencing distribution decisions, with more emphasis on commercial metrics over passion for a story. Whether that's true or not, the fact that it's a concern speaks volumes.
So some 30 years later, I do wonder if you've personally ever felt pressured to take on more supposed, popular or sexy subjects to align with what awards bodies might favour, or do you just focus on the stories you feel need to be told
Yeah. I mean, if I'm being honest, I've been fortunate to be able to make the things I want to make for the most part. That's been true throughout my career, and it all started with "Hoop Dreams." "Hoop Dreams" was a huge struggle to get made, but because of its success, it opened a lot of doors for me. I've made some unconventional choices over the years.
And I guess I've never been someone who has great commercial ideas. I'm not drawn to the typical, more marketable subjects—like crime, for instance. It's just not where my interests lie. But at the same time, I think a lot of my films have been topical, just not in the obvious ways people might expect. For example, I made a film called "The Interrupters," which came out in 2011. It was about violence in Chicago and the individuals trying to mitigate that violence in their communities. To me, that's a hugely topical film, but it didn't necessarily align with the media narrative at the time. If it had come out when Trump was holding up Chicago as a poster child for urban violence, it might have seemed even more relevant.
Another example is the series "America to Me," which is about race and equity in the suburban high school where my kids went to school, just outside of Chicago. I'm really proud of that series. It's incredibly topical, but it's not conventionally commercial. It's a 10-part series that dives deeply into race, equity, and education in a school that has the resources to do better but isn't living up to that potential. When I was pitching the series to potential funders, a lot of them said, "This is great, but it's not for us." And I felt like what they meant was that if I had set it in a more rough-and-tumble, inner-city Chicago school where there was more overt conflict, that would have been more appealing to them. That kind of story has a certain drama to it.
But the whole point of "America to Me" was to say that even in places where there isn't extreme poverty—where schools are well-resourced and the community sees itself as liberal and committed to equity—there are still failures. What's going on there? These issues of race and education run deeper than just the challenges of poverty and underfunded schools.
That said, I've been very fortunate. I've been able to make the films I wanted for most of my career, largely thanks to "Hoop Dreams," which put me on a different path. Many filmmakers don't have that kind of breakout moment to secure the funding and support they need. So, I'm not complaining—I know I've been one of the lucky ones.
You've benefited from Hoop Dreams in some spectacular ways that maybe Arthur and William haven't. Do you still keep in contact with them?
Oh, yeah, absolutely. In fact, we're doing some things for the 30th anniversary of "Hoop Dreams," and there's some really great stuff happening around it. To this day, Arthur and William are like family to me. The good thing is that, for them, "Hoop Dreams" has been, by and large, an incredibly positive thing in their lives.
There have been some downsides, though—especially for William. He's mentioned that he feels the film hasn't led to some of the opportunities he thought it might bring him in his career. But they don't have any regrets. They're very proud of being part of it, and they're excited about the 30th anniversary. It's all good, and they're in a good place with it.
And, you know, they're 51 now. They're not young guys anymore, right? [laughs] But I'm really happy that we've all stayed in each other's lives after all these years. "Hoop Dreams" is actually the one documentary I made that brought in real money, and they rightfully benefited from that. They still do—whenever Criterion or someone else renews the rights, money comes in, and it's distributed. They're still receiving checks from it, which makes me happier than anything else.
Noel Ransome is a Toronto-based culture writer with bylines in VICE, Shondaland, Vanity Fair, and more. He has interviewed icons like LeVar Burton and Barry Jenkins and served as the national entertainment reporter for the Canadian Press, Canada's equivalent of the Associated Press, covering major events like TIFF, the Grammys, and the Emmys.
