Reportedly, Russell Crowe was waiting ringside
for nigh on a decade for
the true story of depression-era boxing champ James J. Braddock
to be made into a feature film, eventually asking director and friend
Ron Howard to take to the helm. Undoubtedly, the wait, and the disappointing
box-office turnover for its late-summer 2005 release, (‘we didn’t
have capes, just shorts’ said Crowe after) may have lead to the
famous ‘throwing-a-phone-at-a-receptionist’s-face’ incident,
giving audiences a further excuse to stay away from that bully Crowe,
and Cinderella Man.
Ironically, though, the film really isn’t about Crowe at all, but rather director Ron Howard, once the archetypal Americana youngster (Happy Days’ Ritchie Cunningham) to the archetypal Americana director, dishing out rich bowls of creamy 'feel-good' movies whilst never really getting the recognition he deserves.
The good news for Howard is that Cinderella Man (his 17th feature as a director) is one of his finest. Where Howard excels, is in his ability to steer films away from squalid box-office fodder (there are few more clichéd filmic experiences than the boxing melodrama) and turning them into solid and engaging pieces of mainstream cinema, regardless of the source material (co-writer Akiva Goldsman is responsible for writing Batman & Robin).
Cinderella Man is awash with sepia and emotive-string arrangements, so much so it practically winks at the award judges. Yet what is surprising about the film is its under-emphasized take on a potentially swollen story; Russell Crowe underplays his role as James J. Braddock (heavyweight title contender, turned washed-up dockworker, turned once again unlikely title contender) never allowing for any real moments of acting hyperbole to be slipped easily into movie trailers. Instead Crowe, correctly, plays Braddock as a simple-man with a hard-head, trying to keep his family together; rather than self-destructing (Raging Bull) or becoming ‘a piece of iron’ (Rocky IV). Whilst this move allows for the central arch of a struggling family to be accentuated, it takes away from the individual actors and show-stopping scenes; there are no ‘Adrian!’ moments here.
The fights themselves are delivered and shot admirably (Howard using the first person perspective to full effect); keeping the hard-hits and gore down to a realistic minimum, and as such every cut and scrape is felt by the audience. The support actors also shine; Renée Zellweger (as Mae Braddock) uses her kooky charm and likeability to give credence to the family dynamics, and the once-again hyperactive Paul Giamatti (Braddock’s trainer / manager Joe Gould) uses his bulging neck veins and protruding eyeballs to give authority to the punishing fight scenes. The chameleon like Paddy Considine also makes an interesting appearance, although his character is paved-over by the inevitable sentimentality of the film (“You’re the champion of my heart, James Braddock”).
The characters themselves may walk on the thin ice of standardisation, (family man = good, promiscuous man = bad), but the film’s quality and earnestness makes for unashamedly enjoyable viewing. Howard may not have learned from Spielberg that over focussing on the central characters may take away from the overall dramatic gravitas and scope (War of the Worlds) and the film may fail to generate awards glory, yet Cinderella Man lands nearly all its punches, a film that takes on the tedious world of triumph-over-adversity and wins. Pop, pop, bang.