The sport of boxing is fertile cinematic ground, and for obvious reasons. It’s the literal depiction of a man — usually, and also almost always an underdog of some sort — fighting his struggles to become a winner and better man among his peers, a goal he fought for so desperately and rigorously in an unforgiving world. It’s never just about what happens under the bell; it’s about the characters themselves and how they become physically and spiritually strong enough to become the champions of the world. Films like Rocky, Cinderella Man, The Fighter and Raging Bull understood this beautifully and successfully played with this idea, therein by made it their own.
Antoine Fuqua’s latest, Southpaw, understands the deep morals laid thick inside the thick-headed leads of these movies. Yet, it isn't sure how to make it new, nor does it make the athlete’s journey have the impact needed to bring it home. Jake Gyllenhaal gives another tour-de-force at the center, and sadly his astounding and transformative work is so often blindsided by the film’s entirely bland and often tiresome story. Like our lead, his heart is pure and strong-willed, but surrounding him is a story going through every-and-all predictable narrative cue and then some in the genre. Plus it constantly guns for bigger and louder emotions, undermining and extinguishing the raw, stirring psychological core the actors establish. The bombastic, tone-deaf approach makes for just another generic, high-strung sports-story bore more worthy of ‘90s TV movie glory, but not as the showcase to prove the Academy his worth as an actor.
The hard-knuckled and good-hearted crowdpleaser efforts are admirable; but this heavyweight melodrama — in more ways than one — beats away at its temperamental objectives with overwrought sentimentality and a nauseatingly overcooked storyline too stale and heavy-handed to come alive. We’re introduced to our poor-kid-on-the-street turned hot-shot Junior Middleweight Boxing Champion of the World Billy Hope (Gyllenhaal) — because Johnny Determination was apparently too on-the-nose — at the pinnacle of his career. He’s undefeated, adored and rich, economically and in the heart. He’s anchored mightily by his strong wife Maureen (Rachel McAdams) and their supportive daughter Leila (Oona Laurence), and they keep his noddle straight, despite all the blows it has taken.
When a charity event indirectly results in the death of Billy’s wife (and yes, it escalates about as hastily as that in the movie), though, our now self-destructive protagonist winds up suspended, dropped by his manager Jordan Mains (50 Cent), homeless and without custody of his daughter. His spirits were as high as could be before, and now their lower than dirt. But guess where things go next? You’re almost certainly correct. Broken but determined to be the dependable father he should be, Billy tightens his grips once again and seeks the once-great local trainer Titus “Tick” Willis (Forest Whitaker) to bring the belt back to his six-packed waist. Tick’s resistant but ultimately complacent, and together they go for the glory.
It’s rudimentary storytelling, and the bare bones of any rise-and-fall-and-rise-again sports tale feverishly dreaming to be a powerhouse audience favorite. There’s nothing wrong with a simple story, of course. Most great movies are fairly simplistic, either by design or from how they’re wielded down. Still needed, however, is a fundamental heart, and this is something Southpaw wants to give but is too clumsy and shiftless to provide.
McAdams and Gyllenhaal do have a nicely tender dynamic together. Their relationship is well catered for during the first third of Fuqua’s movie, and even though her passing doesn’t feel genuine, Billy’s sorrow and compassion echoes through. It’s wrenching to see them apart, and like she does on this season of True Detective, the actress provides finely understated work that makes her weak dialogue stand out much better than it should. Once Maureen’s out-of-the-picture, however, Southpaw is something of a disaster.
Fuqua and his screenwriter, Sons of Anarchy creator Kurt Sutter, mistake overblown theatrics, constant yelling and angry, irrational violence for nuance, and provide no texture and dynamics to their turmoil. Character actions come across too mechanic to become invested, and although time is spent with them interacting accordingly, they’re blunt dialogue and unsympathetic actions makes everything suspense-less and a little shrill.
The only time Southpaw really packs a punch is in the ring, fittingly. Fine foley work, Mauro Fiore’s well-concentrated cinematography — including some immersive POV shots in our blood-rushing climax — and Fuqua’s stern attention to the fighters keeps these segments electrifying. They’re all tight and well edited, and appreciate the method work Gyllenhaal threw into his ripped and roaring body to absorb himself into Billy’s character. But these moments are too far-and-few between to save the rest of the film, though, and they’re complete absence in the middle makes the pacing sluggish when it should be dutiful and compelling.
Compared to the likewise gritty, Pittsburgh-shot sports redemption champion Warrior a few years ago, Southpaw plays out like a sweat-blinded, exhausted brawler trying desperately to keep his wobbling legs upright. It’s manipulative and cheap, damping the winning performances on screen and squandering the potential our lead actor could bring through his impeccable range and physicality. It’s a disappointing missed opportunity, and as far as knockouts go, this one ends up on the other side of the punch.