‘Challengers’ Is Sex, Tennis and Zendaya in Full Beast Mode, Not in That Order

You will never see sweat shot as lovingly, as carefully, or as carnally as you see it filmed in Challengers, Luca Guadagnino’s doubles match of tennis drama and tortured love triangle. It virtually glistens off of the two male players competing to win — on the court, off the court, in the bedroom, during a sauna psyche-out in which one of them is kindly asked to put his dick away — and glides off of every inch of their toned physiques. Massive droplets drip off their noses, down their necks and arms, fall right onto camera lenses looking up at them in loving close-up. There’s no distinction between the perspiration of Art Donaldson (Mike Faist) and his opponent/best frenemy/fellow ball-smacker Patrick Zweig (Josh O’Connor). Once upon a time, they were inseparable. Then Art won championships and became a GOAT contender, while Patrick merely worked the chump-change tournament circuit. But regardless of where destiny steered them, or why exactly they’re now facing off at a challengers event, these guys remain equals in hidrosis. As for the audience watching all of this, they’re left asking themselves: Is it us, or is it really hot in here?

There’s a lot to see in this sports movie that’s given the hyperventilating Jules and Jim treatment: sex, tennis, racket abuse, weaponized stubble, the Stanford University campus, the resurrection of JKF Jr.’s famous “I Told Ya” t-shirt, the most homoerotic churros in film history, more sex, more tennis. What you won’t witness is Tashi Duncan (Zendaya) breaking a sweat, even when this next-gen Serena Williams is decimating fellow players and seems to be moving at light speed — and that difference tells you everything you need to know about who is in charge. As the young woman who catches both of their eyes, coaches both their games (officially and unofficially), and permanently sparks both their libidos, the Euphoria star is the designated alpha of the trio and the dominant force of Challengers itself. Even when one of her costars ends up walking away with the movie tucked into the pocket of his moist shorts, Zendaya is really giving you a meta-portrait of a shot-caller. She’s credited as one of the film’s producer, but when it comes to holding court and keeping it cool narrative-wise, the lady is the auteur by default.

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We’re getting ahead of ourselves, though to be fair, that’s 100-percent in sync with Challengers‘ own attitude regarding chronology — this is a film that’s as fast and loose with its timeframes as these players are precise with their 135 mph serves. It’s a smart move for Guadagnino and screenwriter Justin Kuritzkes to introduce Art and Pat en flagrante backhand, with Tashi observing faux-casually on the sidelines. Tennis is, after all, not just their connection to each other but their lives, their collective obsession, the thing fueling their fame, fortune and immature follies. You can also tell by how they play the game, by the viciousness of their volleys and by the looks they’re each shooting Tashi (and vice versa) that they all have a complicated, entangled history. The New Rochelle, NY tournament, billed as the illustrious “Phil’s Tire Town Challenge” and carrying a modest payoff of $7200, couldn’t be more low-stakes. Which one of these bitter rivals walks away with the bragging rights, however, is nothing less than a life-or-death situation for these three.

Rewind to two weeks earlier: Art is drowning in endorsements and greatest-hits clip reels, but he’s in the middle of an epic slump. He’s taking on all comers, but his head is elsewhere and his heart is anywhere but in the game. Tashi — his coach, his wife, the mother of their child and the one who signs off on ad campaigns, among other things — is not pleased. So she enrolls Art in this rinky-dink event so her husband can get back on track. He can regain his confidence on the court. She can feel like she didn’t marry a washout.

Meanwhile, Patrick also his eye on New Rochelle, but for completely different reasons. He’s broke, disheveled and sleeping in his car; his bank statements suggest he’s been dealing with other serious issues beside financial instability as well. These kind of tournaments are how he makes his version of a living, because hey, he may not be at Wimbledon but at least he’s not hustling amateurs at country clubs. Art and Pat haven’t spoken in years. Both of them are surprised to see each other on the roster. Neither thinks Patrick will come anywhere close to being in the finals — he just needs some quick cash — but damned if he’s confirm his rock-bottom status to his former buddy. Tashi couldn’t be more pissed off. The last thing she needs is this burnout messing with her ATP Masters plan.

Already, Challengers is drawing out the dashed hopes, the displays of wasted potential, the harsh realities that accompany your wildest dreams come true and must then be sustained, licensed and incorporated in perpetuity. He’s hinting at what might be behind the long-held grudges and heartbreaks and the abundance of scars, physical or otherwise. Once we understand that this is a mutual hate born of love, then the movie feels safe fully bringing us back to Ground Zero. Art and Pat are no longer bitter adults but gangly teenagers, all bad haircuts, ears and abs. The latter is keen to catch an exhibition match featuring this new female tennis phenom who he thinks is drop-dead gorgeous. He drags his longtime doubles partner and buddy with him. From the second Tashi steps into view, these guys act like they’ve seen Aphrodite in a short, white skirt. “Lust” is too mild a word to describe what they feel. “Hunger” feels far more accurate.

Long story short, they introduce themselves to Tashi, they all end up in the gents’ hotel room after hours, and Challengers makes good on the inherent promise that three… it’s a magic number. Guadagnino has never been shy when it comes onscreen intimacy, with Call Me by Your Name being only the most obvious example of many; depending on your point of view, the Italian filmmaker has either been the best or the worst thing to happen to the peach-growing industry. Here, he knows he’s working with — let’s be honest — an insanely photogenic cast in an insanely pyrotechnic scenario, one of whom is a major A-list star. Yet he somehow manages to swerve before he runs headfirst into Larry Clark-like skeeviness. Guadagnino is a sensualist filmmaker regardless of whether he’s filming a plate of graciously unmolested fruit, a coven of dance-academy witches or Middle-American cannibals on the run, and that goes double for sex scenes. He knows how to suggest the first, second and third blushes of a group hormonal rush. More importantly, he knows how to use such salacious couplings to make a point.

Because, without giving away too much, things stop before they really get started, but not before something else is finally consummated. And what felt like a simmering subtext becomes a full-boil text. Before Tashi leaves her two suitors in a state of heat, however, she tells Art and Patrick that whoever wins their match against each other the next day gets her phone number. She wants to see some great tennis, because as both of them are about to find out, great tennis is the equivalent of great sex to “the Duncanator.” Courtship means acing championships. Pillow talk means coaching strategies. “Are we talking about tennis?!” is a refrain that comes up several times, and even when they’re technically speaking of the sport as a shield for more delicate or dangerous topics, it’s a ridiculous query. Of course they’re talking about tennis. That’s how they copulate and communicate. Everything else falls under foreplay or disappointment.

That whole concept — the thrill of victory as the height of ecstasy, made manifest when Tashi wins a match and screams “Come on!” in a way that more than slightly resembles a climax — hovers over every scene in Challengers that follows the initial three-the-hard-way coupling. It’s there in the score by Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor, which veers between full-on electro-thump and an acid-disco D.J. night at Plato’s Retreat. It’s certainly there in the interactions between Faist and O’Connor, who keep lacing the boys’ puppy-dog playfulness and bromantic sense of competition with prurient undercurrents. You can even sense it in Zendaya’s performance, which is all about control: maintaining it, masking a lack of it, always keeping the emotional chaos at bay, always keeping your eye on the ball even if you not the one hitting it anymore. The “never let them see you sweat” aspect isn’t just literal with her. When she lets Tashi let go — and she does, in key-moment fits and notable spurts — it resonates that much more passionately. When she goes into beast mode, watch out.

You may wish some of the control-freakiness rubbed off on Guadagnino and cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom by the time the third act rolls around, when matches start turn into a hurlyburly of POV shots from the ball’s perspective and fast-cut sequences that just register as visual noise. At this point, no one needs to be convinced that tennis is exciting, that the final sets of this particular showdown is rife with interpersonal conflict or that the adrenaline dump that accompanies almost inhuman levels of athletic prowess is dizzying and thrilling. Just keep calm, carry on and trust your more-than-capable cast over fancypants sports-movie spectacle. After all, they’re the ones that will make the combo of not one but two big callbacks — one representing betrayal, the other a whopper of delayed gratification — feel like a major payoff. Besides, it’s not like Challengers’ secret weapon hasn’t been hiding in plain sight the entire time.

A movie about a love triangle only works if all three corners properly connect, but that doesn’t mean one might not be a sharper angle than others. Both Zendaya and Mike Faist, the former already a force of nature and the latter a clean-cut, All-American Gary Cooper in waiting, couldn’t be better at convincing you they’re best suited for these roles. They somewhat pale in comparison, however, to the spin that Josh O’Connor gives his charming fuck-up of antihero. His Patrick is the Id to his costars’ Ego and Superego assignations, someone who’s relied on his rogue’s smile, his fleet-footedness and his what-me-worry charm way past their expiration dates. At one point, Tashi unleashes a killer taunt aimed at him — “How’s coasting by on talent going for you?” — and while O’Connor lets you see what a bullseye that assessment is, you’d never accuse the British actor of following suit. For a film so consumed with hitting something over a net, O’Connor’s work here is practically an ode to performing without the safety of one.

That earlier crack about someone stealing the movie? Meet the culprit. Yet O’Connor never showboats in lieu of supporting his partners, and with this one-two punch coming right after his stellar turn in La Chimera, he pretty much establishes that a seedy star is born. The actor may not be the only one sweating it out onscreen. But he’s the guy who enters as an underdog and exits as the hands-down winner, game, set and match.

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