|
|
|
Movie Reviews
| Cinderella Man. Dir. by Ron Howard. Universal Pictures/Miramax Films, 2005. 144 mins.
|
| With no pixie dust, no fairy godmother, and no glass slipper, Cinderella Man is not really a Cinderella story but a tough-minded up-from- the-canvas melodrama modeled after the social realism of the decade it commemorates, a generic descendant of the brothers Warner, not Grimm. Directed by Ron Howard, an old- school Hollywood professional, and offering thin gruel indeed for film critics smitten with stylistic flash and activist zeal, the comeback story of the boxer James J. Braddock (Russell Crowe, usurping the role James Cagney was born to play) exemplifies the sturdy virtues of mature filmmakers at the top of their game, confident heavyweights who know how to lay back in the early rounds, bob and weave without undue showboating, and let loose with a killer uppercut before the end credits roll. Part biopic of a contender whose ticket to Palookaville was not one way, part costume drama of America during its most traumatic decade of the last century, Cinderella Man is that rare Hollywood film not only inspired by actual events but, on the whole, true to their spirit. |
1
|
|
Whether rewinding the days of Homer or Hoover, Hollywood was built to transform the ramshackle, foul-smelling past into a romantic, sepia-toned golden age. Yet even allowing for cinematic license, recent screen excursions into the Great Depression have been exceptionally gauzy and rose-colored. The painterly compositions and magic hour photography that frame Road to Perdition (2002) and the dappled landscapes and sparkling sheen that coat Seabiscuit (2003) seem further removed from historical reality than the period RKO musicals featuring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers floating through art deco penthouses. By contrast, Cinderella Man (the transgendered tag was bestowed by Damon Runyon) seems genuinely serious about its time-traveling mission, taking pains to render the gnawing fear and gut-level despair of a decade that, to today's movie-going demographic, may seem more remote and off-world than that other galaxy far, far away. |
2
|
|
After a brief prologue—which shows Braddock, victorious in the ring, as cocky as the Jazz Age, man and zeitgeist alike cruising for a fall—comes le déluge. A slow pan across a bureau top provides a suitably economic transition as a surface strewn with luxury baubles dissolves into bare-bones toiletries, the gaudy trinkets of a flush decade evaporating before our eyes. |
3
|
|
Of course, we know from authentic history, from advance publicity, and, most of all, from the Jungian memory of Hollywood genre that no matter how far behind on points our fighter is in the early rounds he will not be down for the full count when the final bell rings. With the exception of Joe Louis's epochal knockout of would-be Nazi übermensch Max Schmeling in 1938, Braddock's do-you-believe-in-miracles defeat of Max Baer on June 13, 1935, for the heavyweight championship is the most famous gladiatorial reversal in fight club history. However, the time and the detail that Howard and the screenwriters Cliff Hollingsworth and Akiva Goldsman lavish on the lengthy first act, in which the scrappy "Bulldog of Jersey" is defanged by socioeconomic circumstances beyond his ken, serve notice that the preliminary bouts are not mere sparring matches before the pulse-pounding rise to the top. Braddock is in the fight of his life, but so is one-third of the nation, to take the most conservative estimate. In dwelling on the details and evoking the ethos of the milieu, the filmmakers evince an almost scholarly commitment to the down- and-out side of the 1930s. |
. . . |
There are about 784 more words in this article.
Please log in (or, if you are not yet an
authorized user, please go to the
User Setup page) to gain full access rights. Or if you're already logged in register your subscription.
|
