When the Supreme Court took on Muhammad Ali

JERRY LEWIS, uh-huh, that Jerry Lewis, the slapstick comic, looks Muhammad Ali right in the eye, and screeches, "You're a big bag of wind."

A startled Ali interrupts, sputtering. Lewis finally yelps, "Shut up and let me finish . . . you're a big bag of wind but you're one of the greatest entertainers . . . "

It's just a moment in "The Trials of Muhammad Ali," a lively new documentary being shown at the Ritz at the Bourse. A defining moment?

Entertainer? Is that what Ali was? How about great fighter? Civil-rights crusader? Anti-war activist? Cruel? Kind? Courageous? Devout? Pawn for the Nation of Islam? Draft dodger? Medal of Freedom winner? Olympic torchbearer?

Magician? In one of the first scenes in the compelling film, a youthful Ali turns a scarf into a wand and then back again. Quick hands, a gift for distraction, brash, handsome. All of the above.

It is a flawed film, but worth seeing, because it will help you understand Ali better, understand the turmoil of the 1970s, understand America. And maybe comprehend why he would sacrifice 3 1/2 years of his brilliant career while his conviction for draft evasion is argued through the courts.

The Supreme Court finally overturned the conviction by a vote of 8-0 in 1971. The game was a lot closer than the score indicated, as they say around the ballpark. Thurgood Marshall recused himself. The vote was 5-3 against Ali until Justice John Marshall Harlan II switched sides. Others reconsidered, groping for the proper definition of conscientious objector.

They came up with a technicality, a loophole for this unique heavyweight champion to slither through, and then agreed unanimously. A case so thin, the former law clerk says, that if you stand it on its side, it won't cast a shadow.

Tonight on HBO, a batch of distinguished Hollywood actors play that batch of distinguished judges in "Muhammad Ali's Greatest Fight," which focuses on the decision and the inner workings of the Supreme Court.

Time out for this disclaimer. I was there the day they argued the case in front of the Supreme Court. Based on the harsh line of questioning, I came away feeling Ali was doomed to spend time in jail. Scurried from Washington to his home in Cherry Hill.

Found him angry, bitter, broke. I paid the $12 he owed when his cleaning arrived. And then listened, spellbound, to a crude, 10-minute rant on racism in America. And from the kitchen, Belinda Ali shooshing him softly, troubled by the vulgar language, unsuitable for their kids.

Belinda has a huge role in the film, identified now as Khalilah Camacho-Ali. Wearing makeup, dangling earrings, much heavier. And more opinionated, with a crackling wit and terrific insights.

"Those years in exile," she says, "they were the worst years for us."

She is never asked about Ali flaunting his girlfriend Veronica in Manila before the third fight with Joe Frazier. About flying to the Philippines, trashing Ali's hotel room, then catching the next flight back to the States. How the marriage ended soon after.

She talks about Ali's awkward courtship, about how she shredded the piece of paper he first handed her, the paper he had signed Cassius Clay. How she told him it was a white man's name, to come back after he had a proper name.

The confrontation with Jerry Lewis is part of a sequence. David Frost tries in vain to cajole a confession out of Ali that he doesn't believe all white men are devils. And William F. Buckley scolds Ali for preaching hatred. Ali responds with an fiery attack on Buckley's manners.

"He loved to intimidate people," Khalilah says. "That put him in his comfort zone."

All those years of walking a step behind, eyes downcast, lips sealed. She is fascinated by what has happened to Ali since they parted. And it is fascinating to listen to her.

There is Rahman Ali, Muhammad's brother. His speech so slurred, they display subtitles at the bottom of the screen so you can understand what he's saying. Who cares for Rahman? The film doesn't tell us.

There is the sad scene of his worried mom, Odessa, recalling in anguish how she'd raised her son as a Christian.

There are powerful scenes involving Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. and Louis Farrakhan and the inevitable scenes of Ali torturing Floyd Patterson and Ernie Terrell in the ring, screaming, "What's my name, sucker?"

We know his name, we study his legacy, we argue his place in American history. I'm guessing he's enjoying the attention. He cannot tell us, and that is the saddest thing of all.