Million Dollar Baby: Best Picture Post-Mortem
Posted in scorned on February 28th, 2005My dad tried to get me to watch Dirty Harry films when I was younger, and, within minutes, something in me would rebel against them; I would leave the room, unconverted. Later in life, I made an attempt to see The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly at the Film Forum with foodie/movie friend Ilana, each of us compelled by its falling under the rubric “you should see it.” Like obedient cinemaniacs, we intended to. But service was slow at the eatery we hit prior to, and I can’t say either of us was disappointed to miss it. I did love The Bridges of Madison County, but that had more to do with the, as ever, luminescent Meryl Streep, and eloquent screenplay by Richard LaGravanese, than anything in the way of actorly or directorial contributions on his part. I’m not sure why I’ve always had such an aversion to Clint Eastwood, but there it is, my bias out in the open.
Once again, I’m baffled by the kudos being heaped on him for his latest effort. I finally made my way to see Million Dollar Baby, though I swore last time, after exiting Mystic River scratching my head over the hoopla, not quite believing that it was the New York Film Festival’s selection for opening night movie, that I wouldn’t be swindled by the Eastwood hype again. But encouraged by family members who swore allegiance to it, I was persuaded beyond my gut instincts. After plunking down the money to see it, I remain unwavering in my confusion over the reverential treatment he receives. (Sorry Joel, it just wasn’t my cup of tea.)
(spoiler alert this paragraph)
In a film which actively, manipulatively, courts your emotions through its entire duration, I left the theater unmoved. Its stodgy contrivances hold at bay authentic feelings I might’ve been capable of emoting on my own without being force-fed. Million Dollar Baby, like Mystic River, is utterly lacking in subtlety, hard as it tries. Eastwood whacks his audience over the head with everything, from the music (at least his score isn’t quite as belabored as the last time, though it’s likewise, almost literally, one-note) to the impending doom of its under-lighting (he seems to think having his characters consistently emerge from pitch darkness into strategic arcs of light is somehow innovatively symbolic). Then there are the caricatures of Maggie’s (Hilary Swank’s) horrendous family and the wannabe-but-never-willbe fighter, Danger (Jay Baruchel). We always know exactly how we’re supposed to feel about the characters presented to us, whether it’s disgust in the case of the former or tender pity for the latter. And in a movie that deals with the controversial subject of euthanasia, such black and white descriptions seem out of step, unsophisticated. Eastwood’s tendency towards oversimplification, while simultaneously addressing a matter that deserves nuanced attention, leads to an uncomfortable discordance.
Maybe some of Million Dollar Baby’s emotional impact was lost on me because I knew the ending before I went in, the fault of some careless critic. If I hadn’t known its ultimate trajectory, not so much as hinted at in the previews, perhaps it would’ve surprised me, intrigued me? Even still, previous knowledge of plot twists shouldn’t completely detract from a movie if it has something enlightening to say. It’s marginally interesting in the bare fact that it touches on an issue not typically confronted by American cinema, but great art doesn’t rest on the merely provocative. It needs more depth of delineation to elevate it to the level of masterpiece which is too readily, easily, granted to Eastwood lately.
I’ve always liked Morgan Freeman, and tend to agree with Swank’s remark in her Golden Globe winning speech that he’s the definition of grace, but I’m not sure what distinguishes this role from any of his others, why it should be singled out for an Academy Award. The soothing, rhythmic cadences of his speaking voice have been well-harnessed in the many parts he’s played as narrator, yet though the actor so often provides the focalization point, the story is never his. It’s inevitably some other white man’s, from Seven to The Shawshank Redemption to Million Dollar Baby. He’s always cast as the wise old owl, guru sidekick to a Caucasian male or female (as in the Ashley Judd pairings), and it’s frustrating to see him so specifically typecast in this way. I’d love to see what he could do on his own, in a singular leading role. But he has a modesty, a self-effacing quality which many stars don’t, and perhaps this blindsides casting directors, leading to the common under-utilization of his skills.
The one thing I liked in Million Dollar Baby was Swank. I’ve never been that big a fan of hers because, notwithstanding her other Oscar-winning role in Boys Don’t Cry, I simply haven’t had enough evidence to go on. But I found her horsey alacrity here, her total lack of vanity, charming and real and human. Her relationship with Eastwood’s Frankie, from his initial cantankerous callousness to eventual fatherly protectiveness, works, at all, solely because of her. Though the relationship is supposedly the film’s core, it’s too vague, too run-of-the-mill, for me to completely buy into. But Swank makes me believe her, that the attachment she feels is genuine, despite Eastwood’s dolorous woodenness. That’s something, I suppose. But worthy of being crowned Best Picture? Don’t think so.
- km