Def Jam's How to Be a Player

From his ritual morning cologne spritz to the pelvic region to his shoeboxed archives of panties left by “house guests,” everything about suave young Dray (MTV comic Bellamy) screams: Mamas, lock up your daughters! The brother is a playa, make no mistake about it, and in a running lecture to the audience and his awestruck buddies, he reveals the mack-iavellian strategies that allow him to keep numerous outrageously beautiful women drooling on his Timberland boots and oblivious to each others' existence. “A player never gets caught” is Dray's first principle, and his uncanny success at covering his doggish pawprints drives older sister Jenny (Desselle) into foaming apoplexy. Before long, Jenny -- whose interest in Dray ranges from feminist revulsion to clinical interest (she's doing an anthropological study on the player lifestyle with little bro as the prime subject) -- gets her fill of his smug perfidy and decides to run a sting on him. By inviting all of Dray's honeys to one party, she hopes to expose him for the “ho” he is and make him repent of his crimes against womankind. But rookie director Martin, like most chroniclers of sexual intrigue throughout history, actually harbors a certain affection for the scoundrely Casanova figure. And in this lascivious, distinctly guy-oriented (but not misogynistic) comedy, he even asserts that most women are not only hip to the player's ancient game, but secretly fascinated by his audacious artistry and stimulated by the challenge of domesticating him. Reinforcing this sense of tradition is an amusing cameo featuring Max Julien (star of Seventies blaxploitation classic The Mack) as an elderly smoothy from whom Dray learned his tricks. The droll, bawdy dialogue has a spontaneous street feel, with sly and engaging acting by the entire ensemble, especially Bellamy and Mari Morrow as Jenny's pal Katrina, who proves conclusively that women can also be serious players. Like other recent African-American romantic comedies (see also Booty Call, love jones, and Sprung), Martin's film extends the venerable traditions of Elizabethan and French sex farce by reminding us that our moony ideals of romantic love are often little more than a thin veneer concealing the no-quarter sexual warfare that rages eternally between men and women. Not to over-intellectualize Player, which has too many stock characters and situations and gets more than its share of laughs from jokes about erections and booty smells. But in its unpretentious way, this is really a surprisingly sharp little movie with plenty of irreverent insight for those who'll let it penetrate their PC defenses.