The Fighter, David O. Russell’s depiction of boxer Micky Ward’s climb to the pugilistic top, is truly a mixed bag. The acting is dead-on strong, but other cinematic elements, like the screenplay and cinematography, do not stand up to the challenge.
Ward (Mark Whalberg) is an aging boxer living in the shadow of older brother Dicky’s (Christian Bale) successful fight with Sugar Ray Leonard. His mother (Melissa Leo) manages his career with an iron-clad fist, until new girlfriend Charlene (Amy Adams) encourages the titular fighter to break free of his family’s grasp. Contrasted with the younger brother’s rise is the elder’s drug use, incarceration, and redemption, all neatly told in less than two hours.
The film's impeccable casting must be duly noted, as this movie, for the most part, is a thespian's dream. As the two women in Ward’s life, Leo and Adams are both forces to be reckoned with. As the manager/mother, Leo is fierce, frightening, and a terrible mother. Each line on her face belies the intense determination and unwavering will that has made her the strong woman she is, while also making her momentary breakdown believable and touching. Her motives are often extremely questionable, and her allegiance is closer to Dicky than to Micky, but she’s never a flat character. Charlene, on the other hand, is just as strong-willed as Micky’s mother, though more closely aligned to him. She is the love of his life, picks him up from his lowest point, and pushes him away from his family, which is desperately needed in this occasion. She is the fresh take Micky needs at this point.
Whalberg is good as Micky, though not as noticeable as some others in the cast. The role is not as meaty as one would suppose, and it feels as if the supporting players received the juicer roles. Micky is taciturn, almost introspective, though not intellectual (the filmmakers overemphasize his “average Joe” state by shot of a needless, mood-breaking snooze during a foreign language film). His religion is boxing, his cathedral is the ring. For him, redemption lies in a championship belt. Whalberg anchors us in film’s world through his performance, sacrificing flashiness for emotion. He may not win an Oscar, but he has done his duty.
The standout performance is Bale’s; his Dicky is simultaneously goofy and haunted (as well as haunting). Despite his marquee history, his gaunt, skeletal physique forces all remembrances of his Batman away, leaving only this broken shell of a man behind. He craves attention, the glory he thought he once had; a scene between him and the wildly successful Sugar Ray Leonard is heartbreaking. Bale uses every glance, every cartoonish guffaw to delve into this complicated man, and the moment where he sees, via a documentary account of his addiction, the powerful impact his dim-witted screw-ups have created is powerful. We despise Dicky because he has held Micky back, while at the same time caring about his redemption. That’s not an easy trick, and Bale deftly navigates his way through this performance. He is absolutely, heart-rending astonishing.
The film’s failures, though, lie behind the camera. The screenplay, while admirably getting the raw language of the streets, feels clichéd; yes, the film’s based on a true story, and these events probably transpired in a similar fashion, but we have seen boxing films like this before. While the extensive use of hand-held cameras does create an almost documentary feel, it begins to lose its luster after Dicky’s arrest. On a similar note, the grainy cinematography lends a level of authenticity to the film, yet Russell inexplicably switches to a higher gloss style during the fight scenes, as if to replicate a more television-like quality in those scenes, as if we were watching the events on our own sets. In this instance, what sounded good in paper does not cinematic art create. By now, the comparison may be tired, but what makes the fight scenes in Raging Bull great is how Scorsese utilizes them to reflect the main character’s psychological state from his perspective. In contrast, the fight scenes in this film are disjointed from the narrative, and offer little insight into Micky’s mind. Russell misses several golden opportunities to delve into this character, and wastes them each and every time. Here, the occasional voice-over and/or freeze-frame is far from enough; take us into the character’s mind, let us see though his eyes.
The Fighter, despite its flaws, should be seen and appreciated, not as a “sports film,” but as a tale of brotherly love and mutual redemption. It’s a film about ordinary people, reaching out of the misery of everyday life, yearning for greatness; all the genre trappings are in place, but, buoyed by great acting, are elevated to the place of art. While a good film, this could have been a truly great film, had Russell and the other filmmakers been in The Fighter's corner.
