Despite its subject matter, "Million Dollar Baby" will bring a million dollar smile to your heart, if only metaphorically. As with the previous year's "Mystic River," a similarly dark though decidedly different film, veteran filmmaker Clint Eastwood reveals his authority with the art of storytelling through the nuanced behavior of his characters. In this, the director's 25th feature film, Eastwood proves there is such a thing as a quality film that can appeal to the masses.
Based on Rope Burns: Tales from the Corner, F.X. Toole's collection of stories about prize fighting, "Million Dollar Baby" is a throwback to the kind of films that Warner Bros., the studio which financed it, produced in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Eastwood's mastery with the material is such that he has crafted a timeless film, one that will be as much of a treat fifty years from now as it is today. And what a treat it is.
Eastwood plays Frankie Dunn, the curmudgeonly owner of the Hit Pit, a gritty, money- losing boxing gym in downtown L.A. Once known as the "best cut man in the business," Frankie now spends his days going to church, reading Gaelic poetry, and training Big Willie Little, a fighter whose desire for a shot at the title is hampered only by Frankie's mantra that he'll be ready in "two or three" more fights. That Big Willie disagrees becomes not only a point of contention between the two men, but also an early turning point in the plot.
Overseeing the day-to-day needs of the Hit Pit is Eddie "Scrap-Iron" Dupris (Morgan Freeman, in one of the best turns of his career), an aging former fighter who lost an eye in his last bout, and whose tendency towards gambling has left him virtually penniless. It is to Freeman's credit and astute understanding of the character, however, that Scrap is never pitiful. On the contrary, the quietly philosophical janitor, who is also Frankie's best friend, is the emotional glue that anchors the film and keeps its center intact. He not only maintains order in the often chaotic, testosterone-laden gym, but also provides advice to Frankie in subtle, ambiguous ways. The moments when these two interact on screen, as in the scene about Scrap's holey socks, provide much of the film's comic relief. They also illuminate into the bond of affection the two share.
Into this unlikely mix comes Maggie Fitzgerald (Academy Award winning Hilary Swank, for "Boys Don't Cry"), a big-hearted young woman from the wrong side of Missouri's tracks whose only desire is to have Frankie train her. "I don't train girls," Frankie tells her, but Maggie's headstrong ways prevent her from accepting this as a deterrent. Despite Frankie's resistance, Maggie continues to show up at the gym, trains well into the nights she doesn't wait tables near the beach, and begins to improve her skills under Scrap's occasional, secretive training tips.
Frankie's multilayered defense mechanism is no challenge for Maggie's determination. His warning to her that "tough ain't enough" only further encourages her. In a scene that lays the foundation for the rest of their relationship, Maggie tells him that boxing is the only thing she ever felt good doing. Frankie relents, with the understanding that the two will part ways as soon as her training is complete and she's ready to enter the ring. But Frankie's own heart, "so big, he's doomed to take a fall," overrides this caveat, and he winds up doing "something he hated doing." He takes a chance.
In addition to teaching Maggie the necessary mechanics of the sweet science, Frankie constantly reminds her of the first rule of the fight game: Always protect yourself. But as Scrap's voice-over tells us, people never take their own advice, and Frankie is no exception. As time seamlessly passes during Maggie's career development, Frankie embraces her and her winning spirit in a way he cannot with his own estranged daughter. Such magnanimity can only be rewarded by heartbreak, and from there it's only a matter of time before they careen into the inevitable.
Much has been made over the years of Eastwood's quiet style of working, and the fact that he repeatedly employs the same creative team. One benefit of this practice is the work of the nearly ninety-year-old production designer Henry Bumstead, whose desaturated color palette contributes to the film's somber tone. The conjunction of Bumstead's production design with cinematographer Tom Stern's mostly chiaroscuro lighting creates a spare and haunting look that is rare among modern films, but one that works successfully in this context.
Such a backdrop calls the greatest attention to the actors, and one would be hard- pressed, even during this mad-dash-to-Oscar season, to find any better. Hilary Swank once again proves dauntless when it comes to taking on physically demanding roles without compromising the characters' humanism, but it is Eastwood and Freeman who turn in the kind of nakedly honest performances that suggest a natural understanding of character that comes with age. While one might expect this from these veterans, it is the rare film that provides the opportunity for them to display their skill. That alone makes "Million Dollar Baby" a winner.
Based on Rope Burns: Tales from the Corner, F.X. Toole's collection of stories about prize fighting, "Million Dollar Baby" is a throwback to the kind of films that Warner Bros., the studio which financed it, produced in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Eastwood's mastery with the material is such that he has crafted a timeless film, one that will be as much of a treat fifty years from now as it is today. And what a treat it is.
Eastwood plays Frankie Dunn, the curmudgeonly owner of the Hit Pit, a gritty, money- losing boxing gym in downtown L.A. Once known as the "best cut man in the business," Frankie now spends his days going to church, reading Gaelic poetry, and training Big Willie Little, a fighter whose desire for a shot at the title is hampered only by Frankie's mantra that he'll be ready in "two or three" more fights. That Big Willie disagrees becomes not only a point of contention between the two men, but also an early turning point in the plot.
Overseeing the day-to-day needs of the Hit Pit is Eddie "Scrap-Iron" Dupris (Morgan Freeman, in one of the best turns of his career), an aging former fighter who lost an eye in his last bout, and whose tendency towards gambling has left him virtually penniless. It is to Freeman's credit and astute understanding of the character, however, that Scrap is never pitiful. On the contrary, the quietly philosophical janitor, who is also Frankie's best friend, is the emotional glue that anchors the film and keeps its center intact. He not only maintains order in the often chaotic, testosterone-laden gym, but also provides advice to Frankie in subtle, ambiguous ways. The moments when these two interact on screen, as in the scene about Scrap's holey socks, provide much of the film's comic relief. They also illuminate into the bond of affection the two share.
Into this unlikely mix comes Maggie Fitzgerald (Academy Award winning Hilary Swank, for "Boys Don't Cry"), a big-hearted young woman from the wrong side of Missouri's tracks whose only desire is to have Frankie train her. "I don't train girls," Frankie tells her, but Maggie's headstrong ways prevent her from accepting this as a deterrent. Despite Frankie's resistance, Maggie continues to show up at the gym, trains well into the nights she doesn't wait tables near the beach, and begins to improve her skills under Scrap's occasional, secretive training tips.
Frankie's multilayered defense mechanism is no challenge for Maggie's determination. His warning to her that "tough ain't enough" only further encourages her. In a scene that lays the foundation for the rest of their relationship, Maggie tells him that boxing is the only thing she ever felt good doing. Frankie relents, with the understanding that the two will part ways as soon as her training is complete and she's ready to enter the ring. But Frankie's own heart, "so big, he's doomed to take a fall," overrides this caveat, and he winds up doing "something he hated doing." He takes a chance.
In addition to teaching Maggie the necessary mechanics of the sweet science, Frankie constantly reminds her of the first rule of the fight game: Always protect yourself. But as Scrap's voice-over tells us, people never take their own advice, and Frankie is no exception. As time seamlessly passes during Maggie's career development, Frankie embraces her and her winning spirit in a way he cannot with his own estranged daughter. Such magnanimity can only be rewarded by heartbreak, and from there it's only a matter of time before they careen into the inevitable.
Much has been made over the years of Eastwood's quiet style of working, and the fact that he repeatedly employs the same creative team. One benefit of this practice is the work of the nearly ninety-year-old production designer Henry Bumstead, whose desaturated color palette contributes to the film's somber tone. The conjunction of Bumstead's production design with cinematographer Tom Stern's mostly chiaroscuro lighting creates a spare and haunting look that is rare among modern films, but one that works successfully in this context.
Such a backdrop calls the greatest attention to the actors, and one would be hard- pressed, even during this mad-dash-to-Oscar season, to find any better. Hilary Swank once again proves dauntless when it comes to taking on physically demanding roles without compromising the characters' humanism, but it is Eastwood and Freeman who turn in the kind of nakedly honest performances that suggest a natural understanding of character that comes with age. While one might expect this from these veterans, it is the rare film that provides the opportunity for them to display their skill. That alone makes "Million Dollar Baby" a winner.