Jan. 2, 2011

I can remember writing a piece for CNN back in 1999 in which I hailed David O. Russell, M. Night Shyamalan, and Curtis Hanson as directors who had somehow managed to bypass the de-flavorizer of modern Hollywood and were actually delivering challenging, sharply conceived movies in an utterly commercial setting. As anyone who kept up with my film criticism back in the day will remember, I never missed an opportunity to sing the praises of the great, director-driven pictures of the 1970s, and these three filmmakers, as much as any I could name, appeared to be reviving a strain of cinema that had been virtually plowed under by special effects, merchandising strategies, and all-American corporate greed. I was primed to see what they had to offer us in the future.

Well, the future is now - welcome to 2011, folks - so let’s check the scorecard.

Shyamalan, of course, has shockingly transformed himself into a laughingstock, nothing more than an ego-crippled punch line who recently had a hit with one of the worst-reviewed movies of the year; Hanson has cranked out two duds and a couple of decent time-killers that barely stick in the memory; and Russell, after the quirky-stupid-ridiculous “I Heart Huckabees” (and a viral video freak-out that documents his long rumored penchant for on-set assholery), has now largely redeemed himself with “The Fighter,” a boxing movie so loaded with heart and guts you’re willing to forgive its genre-dictated shortcomings and passages of blunt, working class overstatement.

“The Fighter” won’t make anyone forget Russell’s “Three Kings” (for my money, the best movie of the 1990s), but this is a grounded, no-bullshit piece of filmmaking that generates drama via everyday human conflict, and doesn’t bother to gussy-up its performers for box office dazzle. It’s also one of the rare instances of handheld cameras being utilized to lend a documentary feel to a non-indie movie featuring big-name actors, rather than as a ploy to apply “street cred” to something utterly dishonest and grandstanding.

The picture, which is based on a true story, feels as if it were made on the run, with the same grit and scrappiness that propels its central protagonist.

                                                ***

Mark Wahlberg stars as “Irish” Micky Ward, a tough junior welterweight boxer whose career, under the management of his lower-class, chain-smoking, dunderheaded mother (Melissa Leo), is going nowhere fast. Micky may be the pride of his weather-beaten hometown, Lowell, Massachusetts, but that’s not saying much. The denizens of Lowell appear to spend most of their time drinking, drugging, arguing, and drinking some more, and Micky’s half-brother, a crack-addicted loose cannon named Dicky (Christian Bale, dropping weight for the role again), leads the parade to nowhere.

Dicky once had a promising boxing career himself - as he repeatedly mentions, he knocked Sugar Ray Leonard down during a big-ticket fight - but he’s now a whooping buffoon who, when he’s working at all, helps Micky spread tar on Lowell’s streets. Micky still respects Dicky’s legitimate boxing smarts, however, so he persists in allowing this walking car wreck to serve as his trainer, even when Dicky doesn’t make it to the gym to prepare for a big bout because he’s hanging out with his “friends” at a local crack house.

An HBO camera crew is following Dicky around, making a documentary about the effects of crack addiction (this actually happened in real life), but Dicky tells the neighborhood, including his excessively gullible mom and five fashion-challenged sisters, that the cameras are recording his journey back to the ring.

Although the script’s key concern is how loyalty to wayward flesh and blood is capable of pulling down even a strong person, Russell and his screenwriters (Scott Silver, Paul Tamsay, and Eric Johnson) overplay their hand considerably when it comes to Micky’s immediate family. Dicky is on crack, so he has his reasons. The women in Micky’s life, though, seem almost too idiotic to breathe, and their overbearing concern for Micky’s well-being is initially amusing but quickly starts to grate; his mother and sisters, taken as a whole, are just a wall of hair and stupidity.

If not for the dignified anchor of a straight-shooting, long-suffering patriarch (Jack McGee), the viewer would have no reason to enter the Ward home after the first couple of screech-filled visits. But the hairspray and Lucky Strikes keep coming at you, like Smokin’ Joe Frazier smelling blood.

Micky’s redemption, as you entirely expect if you’ve ever seen a boxing movie before, comes in the form of an equally besieged woman. This time, it’s Charlene (Amy Adams), a college-dropout bartender who convinces Micky he needs to break away from his dead-weight mother and brother, get some real support, and start fighting worthwhile opponents.

Wahlberg is his usual, stoic, soft-spoken self; he’s a solid if relatively unsurprising actor. But his scenes with Adams, who’s a lot sexier than you expect her to be and manages to deliver the most exciting beating in a film that’s filled with them (let’s just say she has one too many conversations with Micky’s sisters), are imbued with a tenderness that draws you back into the story again and again.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Adams get another supporting actress Oscar nod this year, not that that validates anything, and Leo will probably get one, too, even though she often carries on so histrionically her performance verges on “Saturday Night Live” shtick.

The real draw here, though, is Bale. Although he, too, has to overcome our knowledge of a couple of much publicized off-screen hissy fits, he so completely inhabits Dicky, you can’t keep your eyes off him.

Bale comes from the Daniel Day-Lewis school of immersion in character; he’s virtually a changeling who leaves behind everything you’ve seen him do before, and reinvents the flow of his intensity with each performance. There’s a mercurial quality to his characters’ passions, a craziness that can either generate laughs or scare the shit out of you, depending on the dictates of the scene.

Dicky is not an easy character to pull off - the obvious fuck-up who repeatedly charms the people he wounds the most - and Bale swings between the dilated-pupil highs and handcuffed lows as if Dicky himself gets a charge out of seeing what he’s going to do next. There are moments when he practically stands outside of himself with his jaw hanging open. I don’t usually talk about Oscars so much, but I’ll be genuinely stunned if Bale doesn’t finally walk away with one this year. He might be a laser-focused jerk, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a great actor. In fact, he’s one of our best.

“The Fighter” isn’t exactly “Rocky,” but it’s not “Raging Bull,” either. Russell doesn’t seem particularly concerned with kicking your ass in the ring; the fights mostly look like video-shot HBO bouts, and there’s not the slightest hint of Jesus-in-shorts imagery. The music, which relies on amusingly god-awful hair metal singles as well as a welcome turn from the Breeders, is a particular highlight. You also get a visit with the real Micky and Dicky during the credits, and it’s fun to see. Rated R, for sex, violence, drug use, and profanity. 114 minutes.

Paul Tatara