Raging Bull – Consumed By Film

Director: Antoine Fuqua

Release Date: July 24th, 2015 (UK & US)

Genre: Action; Drama; Sport

Starring: Jake Gyllenhaal, Rachel McAdams, Forest Whitaker

The fact that Southpaw struggles to hurdle the proverbial style over substance dilemma is perhaps not particularly surprising given its director Antoine Fuqua recently doused the silver screen with The Equalizer and Olympus Has Fallen. Having said that, Fuqua was also the man behind Training Day back in 2001, and had he borrowed more of that movie’s mettle, the filmmaker might have been onto a winner with this otherwise fairly conventional sports drama.

“Billy Hope” is a classic boxing name, the sort given to someone destined to surmount typical obstacles. True to form, Billy Hope (Jake Gyllenhaal) is an underdog: orphaned at a young age, odds stacked against him from the get-go, we meet Hope right before he is about to box for the World Light Heavyweight Title in Madison Square Garden. He wins. And that’s fine; boxing movies tend to be underdog movies for a reason — in real life, the sport is all about rising above adversity and showing heart, so it is right cinema should reflect that.

But when dazzling shots of New York City find significant screen time, something feels off. Commercialism is in the air and it rears its rich head more often than it ought to. Sure, this idealist aura fits when Hope is champion and resultantly wrapped up in his material world — he and his wife Maureen (Rachel McAdams), a fellow orphan, live in a plush home with their adolescent daughter — but as soon as the fighter loses everything, materiality should no longer be his goal. For a while, it isn’t.

After Hope’s victory, the film is dead-set on convincing us that boxers never truly win. From subtle hints at memory loss, to his wife’s misgivings about him competing again, to the actions of another title contender, the darker side of boxing is emphasised. Of course, tragedy is bound to strike and when it does it’s really quite heartbreakingly played by the people involved. Those who have seen the trailer will know what happens — I’ll avoid the particulars, though it is easy to work out. The abrupt nature of the tragedy suggests it is merely a narrative device designed to propel Hope’s story forward, and although there is truth to that line of thought, it does also introduce compelling themes such as fatherhood with greater heft.

The legal resolution to the tragedy is poorly realised; the consequences seem lazily construed (harsh punishments are dealt to innocent parties, whereas the guilty gang appear to get away scot-free). Left wallowing in despair, Hope turns again to boxing rather than his equally distraught daughter, and then to drink and violence when the fighting does not pan out. His once loyal promoter (50 Cent) drops him without any incline of regret because, after all, “it’s just business”. Here, Sons of Anarchy creator Kurt Sutter’s screenplay highlights the ruthless side of the sport, the corporate face that wholly goes against boxing’s brotherly backbone.

Gyllenhaal channels Anthony Quinn in Requiem for a Heavyweight, muttering and growling through helpings of dialogue. We watch him navigate home life with busted ribs and a busted face, and the actor sells the agony with so much realism you wonder whether he literally took a beating for his craft. The typical boxer stereotypes are enforced: Hope can’t really spell, nor is he a great public speaker outside the world of boxing, but at least we get a chance to see these anxieties play out. In truth he isn’t an especially well written character, erratic, for example, in moments of should-be clarity — an introductory conversation between he and maturing gym owner Tick Willis (Forest Whitaker) combusts out of nowhere.

I’m not entirely sure how Whitaker meant to portray Tick; he flirts between calm and crazed a little too enthusiastically. Oona Laurence ably pulls off Hope’s book smart daughter. She has lovely poise and avoids the potentially suffocating Grating Child Actor trap. This is the Gyllenhaal show though. He manages to terrify and reflect instability, yet still garner our complete sympathy. Indeed it is a transformative performance, but the muscular physicality is almost irrelevant. His heavy face, his anguished voice, his bowed eyes — these are the traits that actually engage us.

But as unoriginal training montages begin to arrive, coaxed on by Eminem, the overly produced aura makes a comeback. I think the film gets too caught up in reaching an idealistic end point: it needs to better separate the grit and the glam (it does for a while and works as a result), because the glam is poison and we do not want our reformed anti-hero seeking out poison. Million Dollar Baby is an example of a film that brilliantly subverts the recognisable model. Fuqua, it seems, can’t quite help chasing another false dream.

We do see an apt balance of grit and glam inside the ring. Fights are HBO presentations, and broadcasting mainstays Jim Lampley and Roy Jones, Jr. provide commentary. Wide shots positively feed the authentic televisual nature of the matches (as opposed to lingering on the boxers’ faces, common in Rocky and Raging Bull, those films likely limited by their technical capabilities). The fight choreography even evokes reality: head and body clinches are plentiful, and a blood-sweat concoction violently sprays at the behest of punches. One particularly intuitive camera movement vaults backwards over the top rope after a brutal uppercut.

Apart from that, there is nothing new going on here. Fuqua directs on familiar ground, navigating efficiently through the usual peaks and troughs before landing where all boxing movies land. His lead actor elevates the material, but even he needs more support from those around him (main villain Miguel Escobar (Miguel Gomez) is woefully wafer-thin). Southpaw was probably never going to be a true contender, but thanks to Jake Gyllenhaal, Billy Hope is at least somebody.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): The Weinstein Company

Director: Seth MacFarlane

Release Date: June 26th, 2015 (US); July 8th, 2015 (UK)

Genre: Comedy

Starring: Mark Wahlberg, Seth MacFarlane, Amanda Seyfried

After another so-so opening narration dulcetly delivered by Patrick Stewart, Ted 2 dives into a random dance scene. It’s somewhere between peculiar and unexciting, like a Twin Peaks dream sequence but with all the giant men and shimmying dwarves removed in favour of industrial, high-concept choreography. The scene sort of reflects the film as a whole — a rudimentary and rude affair, though not especially interesting or funny. There’s a just because attitude prevalent throughout, where things happen, y’know, just because.

Mark Wahlberg is back as John Bennett, no longer in a relationship with Mila Kunis’ character from the first film. In fairness, writer-director Seth MacFarlane avoids taking shots at Kunis’ non-appearance (it’s probably the only easy route he sidesteps). The utility man voices Ted, whose attempt to start a family with his new wife Tami-Lynn (Jessica Barth) brings into question his humanness.

Though Ted 2 has a few — I counted three — genuinely guffawful moments, MacFarlane’s script just isn’t up to scratch. Often the best comedy outputs are those which pierce the soul of society, but there is hardly anything here that threatens to combine humour, intellect and relevance. In what feels like a hurried, anxiety-fuelled quest to toss lazy gags at an ideas board, gay sex jokes and clichéd story arcs become default bullseyes.

After much romantic toing and froing, MacFarlane realises that he needs to get his A-listers — Wahlberg and Amanda Seyfried — together pronto, therefore he has them literally smash through an isolated barn at night. What follows is a campfire sing-along (thankfully someone brought their guitar on the four hour road trip), a lot of deep eye staring, and a sleepover under the stars. Or, simply put, more dreary clichés than anyone can handle.

Going into Ted 2 you have to expect an onslaught of harshness because that’s the kind of comedy MacFarlane knows. It is true that comedy should be democratic in its aim, unafraid to throw punches at touchy subject matters in the right context. Whereas there is no place for a Bill Cosby quip in a frothy family piece, that echelon of joke can work in a smart, R-rated setting. But when the jokes aren’t funny — and they mostly aren’t — any protective mist dissolves and MacFarlane’s unfortunate scapegoats are left in full view.

Homosexual jests are a mainstay, and nerd culture takes a hit too. We even hear a particularly iffy remark about feeding a special needs child. Because it’s not funny, there is nothing to harness the underlying cruelty. Mainly however, MacFarlane’s script evades controversy and is instead just lazy. A scene involving Liam Neeson, where he tries to buy children’s cereal at the supermarket, embodies this staleness. Neeson, playing himself, doesn’t know if buying children’s cereal is legal, so he speaks in his recognisably hushed voice to avoid raising attention. It’s Liam Neeson though. He’s a tough guy yet he likes juvenile food. Get it?

Other tired gags include a FOX News parody that is only funny if you dislike FOX News (I giggled), and Ted insinuating he once spent time as a prostitute to make ends meet. When the film works in a comedic sense it uses fresher avenues as a basis, i.e. taking pot-shots at the probable woes faced by improv artists on a nightly basis. Even simple yet exquisitely timed irreverent humour can prove prosperous, such as an incident involving glass table. We just don’t get enough of these moments.

Ted’s height works for cinematographer Michael Barrett, who occasionally manages to shoot the bear from behind Tami-Lynn when the duo are conversing. Fitting. The film is technically well-made, and the computer-generated Ted blends effectively with his surroundings. MacFarlane, having juggled just about every other aspect of filmmaking, gives it his best as the voice of Ted, though why he chose a Bostonian Peter Griffin sound is still baffling.

As the returning foe, Giovanni Ribisi is the most enjoyable actor to watch. He plays the creepy Donny, this time employed by Hasbro as a janitor, his sly performance reminiscent of the scheming zoo keeper from Friends (which Ribisi also guest starred in). Amanda Seyfried is another engaging screen presence, playing against type — sort of — as a recreationally drugged up lawyer. She doesn’t have much to do; her law skills are increasingly sidelined with icky romance preferred. Mark Wahlberg is fine too but his elevated stupidity is less amusing this time around. Someone involved must have dirt on Morgan Freeman.

In an attempt to balance levity with gravity, meagre topical references to US race relations and minority struggles are somewhat invoked during Ted’s court battle. However the writing isn’t smart enough, and as such all we’re left with is a magical teddy bear using a lawyer to argue his humanity in court. Only when Ted presses his chest button and an automated “I love you” message rings out does he — and everyone else — realise he is a toy. It’s that kind of suspend-your-disbelief movie, but there is nobody or nothing to believe in. Thus attempts to satirically mirror weighty societal issues fall flat.

Picking out movie references passes the time, although you get the sense that these are part of an indecisive and fragmented script. There is Raging Bull — Ted wears a dirty vest at the dinner table as he engages in plate-throwing shouting match with Tami-Lynn; Jurassic Park — one of the film’s few humorous moments replaces amazing dinosaurs with amazing marijuana plants; The Breakfast Club — we see some sideways shuffling in the library as part of a musical montage; and Pulp Fiction — Ted and John are shot from below as the gawk at Tom Brady’s glowing genitals. In reflection, a ninety minute outing made up entirely of movie references would have been more fun to sit through.

Ted 2 is a generally humourless, invariably bland sequel though, one that will probably make a truckload at the box office (it hasn’t, reassuringly). “We’re giving you the tools buddy. Come on, make some fucking comedy!” Ted bellows at one point. If MacFarlane values personal artistic merit, he should heed his own advice.