Jake Gyllenhaal gave one of 2014’s best performances as the gaunt, hollow-eyed and ruthlessly ambitious thief who effortlessly transforms himself into a journalist in Nightcrawler. Gyllenhaal’s significant weight loss for the part and creepy turn didn’t impress the Oscar award selectors, and he didn’t even make it to the list of nominations for best actor. Might the selectors consider Southpaw? Every strained sinew of it seems to be Oscar bait, starting with Gyllenhaal’s physical transformation in the opposite direction. He plays a man older and bulkier than himself, a beat-up pugilist whose fall from grace and claw-back to glory has been seen so often before that it’s a miracle that a boxing picture gets greenlit any more.
Gylenhaal perfectly slips into the damaged boxer role, the rite of passage for any American actor worth his salt¸ as is the rest of the cast that works hard to lift the shopworn material. Southpaw starts in the ring, where Gyllenhaal’s light heavyweight champion Billy Hope has knocked his opponent senseless while suffering grievous injuries in the bargain. There is plenty of blood on the floor of the boxing ring, and Hope’s supportive wife, Maureen (Rachel McAdams), is none too happy about it.
Maureen persuades Hope to cut back his assignments, but circumstances (rather, scripting contrivances) cause her departure from the story and Hope’s overnight transformation from man of the house to a nobody. His beloved daughter Layla (a sparky Oona Laurence) is sent to child care and it is only a matter of time before Hope will walk into a run-down gym and seek the help of trainer-cum-shrink Titus (Forest Whitaker) to make a glorious comeback.
The commitment of the cast, including McAdams who shines in a small role, eclipses the efforts of writer Kurt Sutter to spin the predictable yarn in a new direction. From the opportunistic manager (50 Cent) who switches to new talent at the first signs of Hope’s misfortune, to the golden-hearted trainer who forces Hope back into shape, there is little here that hasn’t been seen before.
Since director Antoine Fuqua (Training Day, King Arthur, Olympus Has Fallen) is at the helm, there is never any shortage of music video atmospherics. The glare of the ring contrasts with the colourless misery of Hope’s changed surroundings. The boxing bouts have the usual lashings of blood-letting, frenetic editing and multiple camera angles to suggest energy and momentum, but their only achievement is to prove that Gyllenhaal can punch as well as he can act. There are as many tender scenes between Hope and Maureen and the boxer and his daughter as there are overwrought ones aimed at ratcheting up sympathy for under-developed characters.
Films such as The Wrestler and Warrior have explored with greater depth and empathy the links between working-class men and the culture of professional fighters. Southpaw’s attempts to shade Hope’s character by referring to his orphanage status and his hardscrabble childhood, are, however, as hollow as the sudden discovery that the technique he has used to reach the top is actually his biggest handicap. That would make Titus, the sage in the tracksuit behind this momentous realisation, the movie’s real hero.
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Gylenhaal perfectly slips into the damaged boxer role, the rite of passage for any American actor worth his salt¸ as is the rest of the cast that works hard to lift the shopworn material. Southpaw starts in the ring, where Gyllenhaal’s light heavyweight champion Billy Hope has knocked his opponent senseless while suffering grievous injuries in the bargain. There is plenty of blood on the floor of the boxing ring, and Hope’s supportive wife, Maureen (Rachel McAdams), is none too happy about it.
Maureen persuades Hope to cut back his assignments, but circumstances (rather, scripting contrivances) cause her departure from the story and Hope’s overnight transformation from man of the house to a nobody. His beloved daughter Layla (a sparky Oona Laurence) is sent to child care and it is only a matter of time before Hope will walk into a run-down gym and seek the help of trainer-cum-shrink Titus (Forest Whitaker) to make a glorious comeback.
The commitment of the cast, including McAdams who shines in a small role, eclipses the efforts of writer Kurt Sutter to spin the predictable yarn in a new direction. From the opportunistic manager (50 Cent) who switches to new talent at the first signs of Hope’s misfortune, to the golden-hearted trainer who forces Hope back into shape, there is little here that hasn’t been seen before.
Since director Antoine Fuqua (Training Day, King Arthur, Olympus Has Fallen) is at the helm, there is never any shortage of music video atmospherics. The glare of the ring contrasts with the colourless misery of Hope’s changed surroundings. The boxing bouts have the usual lashings of blood-letting, frenetic editing and multiple camera angles to suggest energy and momentum, but their only achievement is to prove that Gyllenhaal can punch as well as he can act. There are as many tender scenes between Hope and Maureen and the boxer and his daughter as there are overwrought ones aimed at ratcheting up sympathy for under-developed characters.
Films such as The Wrestler and Warrior have explored with greater depth and empathy the links between working-class men and the culture of professional fighters. Southpaw’s attempts to shade Hope’s character by referring to his orphanage status and his hardscrabble childhood, are, however, as hollow as the sudden discovery that the technique he has used to reach the top is actually his biggest handicap. That would make Titus, the sage in the tracksuit behind this momentous realisation, the movie’s real hero.