Not football, for once, but Brian Phillips at Grantland is just a fantastic writer and I like a little NBA once in a while:
One of the exciting things about this year’s MVP race is that whoever wins, it’s likely to reflect a stylistic evolution. Steph Curry and James Harden are both products of the new emphasis on 3-point shooting, the death of the midrange jumper, and next-gen tactics; they do not look like the players who’ve won it before. But if Curry and Harden are the equivalent of a new movie genre entering the Oscar vernacular — The Apartment winning the year after Ben-Hur, say — Westbrook is like some avant-garde European art-porn film whose function is to implode your entire idea of genre. The characters aren’t developed. The story doesn’t make sense. The constant unexplained flashes to inverted-color renderings of paintings from the Louvre make you wonder whether you’re watching a critique of capitalism or an ad for seizure medication. It’s not polished and it’s often frustrating. But it amazes you, too. And for a couple of hours after you leave the theater, the world looks like a strange and different place.