Query to fans of this movie: Shall I tuck you in?

Rating: 2/10 (8 June 2005)

*Cinderella Man* is the latest entry in what is apparently the newest American cinematic sub-genre: a heroic sports-figure (man or even horse) from the Depression Era, a "little" guy rising, against all odds, to become the champion of his (or its) given sport. It's sad, but not too terribly surprising, that movies like *Seabiscuit* and *Cinderella Man* are being made these days. When one considers the current political climate, in which, for example, our nation's leaders have apparently endorsed the torturing of our "enemies", infantilizing sap like this film must seem overwhelmingly attractive to both movie-makers and audiences. When a nation's pop culture is resorting to dewy-eyed, sepia-toned sentimentality for an era 70 years in the past, it not merely indicates an inability to look at our current dilemmas squarely in the face, but it also suggests a cowardly fear of what lies ahead. When great civilizations wax nostalgic for a presumably more "innocent" past, empires totter. How far we've fallen since *Rocky*! -- a film in which Sylvester Stallone made a country stand up and cheer immediately following the shell-shock from Vietnam and Watergate. Let it be noted that *Rocky* was set in contemporary times, too: Looking Forward, with Defiant Hope.
Not so, here. *Cinderella Man* says: Keep Looking Backward, Rube, and Cross Your Fingers! Setting aside the socio-political import of this movie, one has to wonder what sort of mood his countrymen is in that would make them not only want to watch this, but to even like it. Hell, you know the outcome going in! Braddock beats Baer! The End! Feel better now? Take two aspirins and call me in the morning, but first, let me tuck you in your safe, warm, cozy little beds. *Cinderella Man* is the cinematic equivalent of a young children's picture-book, like "Goodnight Moon", to be read before bed-time. The movie's fans, like sleepy four-year-olds snug in their beds, know exactly how each scene will play out and how the story ends. "Read it again, Mommy." Fine for the tykes; embarrassing, however, if you're an adult. How anyone can watch this film without a sense of crushing boredom is quite simply beyond my comprehension.
Are we surprised that the movie is directed by Ron Howard -- Mr. *Cocoon*? The usual Howardian sentimentality would be fine if there was anything indicative of an auteur's spirit to go with it. But no, we get every cliché in the book, in terms of both the screenplay itself and the very look of the picture (speckled with grit and leached of color during Braddock's hard-knock moments in his shanty home or at the docks; burnished with a happy sunshine-yellow when things start turning around; drenched with spit- sweat- and blood-spray across the frame during the over-edited boxing fights). There's some terrible dialog, too: at a press conference just before the climactic bout, Howard has Russell Crowe say that he's fighting for "milk". Oh Brother! Can you spare a dime? Did Braddock really say this? Probably not, considering the many errors and outright falsehoods, particularly about Max Baer, in this movie that historians have already documented.
I'm giving *Cinderella Man* a generous 2 stars out of 10 -- the second star entirely for some nice performances by Russell Crowe (earnest, soulful, really looking the part, and convincingly humble), and by Paul Giamatti as the trainer. NO marks, however, for Craig Bierko's camera-mugging, or for Renee Zellweger's constant sniffling.