A bout, a man
REVIEW: Cinderella Man
* * * *
It's Depression-era New York. Winter. Fifteen million are unemployed. There's nothing left in the kitty, the gas has been turned off, the kids are hungry, boxer James Braddock (Russell Crowe) has hurt an arm in a previous match so he can't fight, and there's only the odd day of back-breaking work down at the docks. He has refused to take the emergency handout. His wife, played by Renee Zellweger with a squinty-eyed, scrubbed-face look that's supposed to pass for authentic honest but poor, is barely holding the family together. There's the threat that one or more of the three kids may have to be farmed off to a relative, but it's something Braddock vows never to do. She suggests praying, but he demurs: “I'm all prayed out.”
He goes down to where the big bods of the boxing lark hang out, a relatively plush lounge in these austere times. In it are the men who have made good money betting on him and similar simple, hard-working types. In a reasonable-sounding working class burr, Crowe has Braddock give a short but articulate, heartfelt speech about his plight (as they do to this day in train carriages in France and Spain between stops) and doffs his cap for whatever change they can spare. His embarrassment at having to stoop this low is palpable – as is his determination to extract the most money he can for his family. And just as importantly, we can feel the men he approaches squirm with discomfort.
This single scene makes you unmistakably aware that Crowe has a talent few other actors do: he’s so in character that he makes you forget he's a $40 million-a-film star. He doesn't look like his fellow multimillion-dollar billers, the Cruises or the Willises, with his unbotoxed, unpretty, take-it-or-leave-it face. But he's got the goods.
And then, of course, Braddock makes his comeback, slowly, but oh so surely, rising from fighting bums to taking on for the championship Max Baer, a bigger, better fighter who has killed a couple of men in the ring.
Cinderella Man is director Ron Howard's best game; Braddock is Seabiscuit in a smaller ring, with horse and jockey melded into one gritty, black-quiffed slugger. Not only does Braddock hold off taking a government handout until it's just not possible to go on, he pays it back. Take that, you thieving fat cats! This is a uniquely American kind of fiscal morality, perfect-bound to an underdog to out-modest all underdogs. “He's not the same fighter,” goes the cry. No he's not; he's been superdignified. Now he's fighting for family.
The problem with this emotional exaggeration – one of his enterprising children steals a salami from Speegle's meats; he makes him give it back – is that it also leads us to question other things, such as how he can box like a relative chump early in his career, and then, once he has overcome crippling adversity, miraculously has the ability to tackle a champ.
The film does period well, for the most part. Though at some moments the Braddocks' house looks like something out of Brecht play, so broken down and bare are their rooms, the chills and wisps of snow sneaking down the stairs. As does the shanty town in Central Park, all tin huts and muddy desperation. The bars and houses, where everybody's listening to their radio as they cheer their champion against Baer, are likewise romanticised places of restrained revelry.
Paul Giamatti (Sideways) is having lots of fun as his faithful trainer, asking Braddock to left-right-jab and getting righteously indignant at any doubters. Zellweger, as mentioned, has her method acting rags on, and nothing will deter her from being the dullest thing in the picture.
Ah, but it wouldn't be a Ron Howard movie if it didn't overegg its topping. It's not enough to make you nauseous, but you won't feel like anything sweet for a while.
And he can shape a smarter-than-average crowd-pleaser. The boxing is technically first-rate, in that it looks like the blows connect and it's edited so well that we are gripped all the way through some surprisingly long bouts (though Crowe is inches shorter than the 6’3” Braddock). I wouldn't have the foggiest if he's boxing well, but he’s clearly learned a few things that will keep him in good stead for future, er, altercations.
Not excellent but really quite good.
* * * *
It's Depression-era New York. Winter. Fifteen million are unemployed. There's nothing left in the kitty, the gas has been turned off, the kids are hungry, boxer James Braddock (Russell Crowe) has hurt an arm in a previous match so he can't fight, and there's only the odd day of back-breaking work down at the docks. He has refused to take the emergency handout. His wife, played by Renee Zellweger with a squinty-eyed, scrubbed-face look that's supposed to pass for authentic honest but poor, is barely holding the family together. There's the threat that one or more of the three kids may have to be farmed off to a relative, but it's something Braddock vows never to do. She suggests praying, but he demurs: “I'm all prayed out.”
He goes down to where the big bods of the boxing lark hang out, a relatively plush lounge in these austere times. In it are the men who have made good money betting on him and similar simple, hard-working types. In a reasonable-sounding working class burr, Crowe has Braddock give a short but articulate, heartfelt speech about his plight (as they do to this day in train carriages in France and Spain between stops) and doffs his cap for whatever change they can spare. His embarrassment at having to stoop this low is palpable – as is his determination to extract the most money he can for his family. And just as importantly, we can feel the men he approaches squirm with discomfort.
This single scene makes you unmistakably aware that Crowe has a talent few other actors do: he’s so in character that he makes you forget he's a $40 million-a-film star. He doesn't look like his fellow multimillion-dollar billers, the Cruises or the Willises, with his unbotoxed, unpretty, take-it-or-leave-it face. But he's got the goods.
And then, of course, Braddock makes his comeback, slowly, but oh so surely, rising from fighting bums to taking on for the championship Max Baer, a bigger, better fighter who has killed a couple of men in the ring.
Cinderella Man is director Ron Howard's best game; Braddock is Seabiscuit in a smaller ring, with horse and jockey melded into one gritty, black-quiffed slugger. Not only does Braddock hold off taking a government handout until it's just not possible to go on, he pays it back. Take that, you thieving fat cats! This is a uniquely American kind of fiscal morality, perfect-bound to an underdog to out-modest all underdogs. “He's not the same fighter,” goes the cry. No he's not; he's been superdignified. Now he's fighting for family.
The problem with this emotional exaggeration – one of his enterprising children steals a salami from Speegle's meats; he makes him give it back – is that it also leads us to question other things, such as how he can box like a relative chump early in his career, and then, once he has overcome crippling adversity, miraculously has the ability to tackle a champ.
The film does period well, for the most part. Though at some moments the Braddocks' house looks like something out of Brecht play, so broken down and bare are their rooms, the chills and wisps of snow sneaking down the stairs. As does the shanty town in Central Park, all tin huts and muddy desperation. The bars and houses, where everybody's listening to their radio as they cheer their champion against Baer, are likewise romanticised places of restrained revelry.
Paul Giamatti (Sideways) is having lots of fun as his faithful trainer, asking Braddock to left-right-jab and getting righteously indignant at any doubters. Zellweger, as mentioned, has her method acting rags on, and nothing will deter her from being the dullest thing in the picture.
Ah, but it wouldn't be a Ron Howard movie if it didn't overegg its topping. It's not enough to make you nauseous, but you won't feel like anything sweet for a while.
And he can shape a smarter-than-average crowd-pleaser. The boxing is technically first-rate, in that it looks like the blows connect and it's edited so well that we are gripped all the way through some surprisingly long bouts (though Crowe is inches shorter than the 6’3” Braddock). I wouldn't have the foggiest if he's boxing well, but he’s clearly learned a few things that will keep him in good stead for future, er, altercations.
Not excellent but really quite good.
3 Comments:
These days, movies often let themselves down when modern language is inserted for the sake of a catchy sound bite. There must be lots of examples of this...
“I'm all prayed out"? Would anyone have said that in the Depression-era? I somehow doubt it.
True, verbisation didn't kick in proper until at least 1980.
It's angering, as Angeline Jolie might say, when they center their idioms around a pree-mature decade...
I'll stop saying things to you now.
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