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Jim Sheridan fights the good fight. By Gary Susman JANUARY 12, 1998: The Troubles. Bombs and blood ties. Daniel Day-Lewis as a Northern Irish prisoner. A script written by Jim Sheridan and Terry George (In the Name of the Father, Some Mother's Son) and directed by Sheridan (Father). Not many surprises in The Boxer for filmgoers who've seen any IRA dramas over the last few years. Still, what's here is done smartly and effectively, with a quiet, bruised maturity rare to both the genre and the bloated holiday-movie season.
What that new prison bride is in for is spelled out in a speech by local IRA leader Joe Hamill (Brian Cox): prisoners' wives are a special class of martyrs who are expected to stand by their men. Hamill equates staying faithful to one's husband with staying faithful to the cause. Hamill's own daughter, Maggie (Emily Watson), is a prisoner's wife. As a teenager, she had loved Danny Flynn, but when he was jailed, she married another man (who was later jailed himself) and bore him a son, Liam (Ciaran Fitzgerald). Now that Danny has returned, she dares not rekindle the old flame, as violation of the code could result in Danny's death or her own. Yet Danny believes he can put his old life back together without compromising his own sense of honor. A promising boxer in his teens, he longs to return to the ring, where the fighting has rules and where character, not ideology, matters. Through sheer force of personality, he pulls his old trainer, Ike Weir (Ken Stott), out of a gutter of Guinness and rebuilds the gym of his youth, where both Catholics and Protestants used to train. Taking advantage of the recent ceasefire, Danny stages some bouts that bring both sides together in shared civic pride and love of the sport.
Sheridan and George make their points without subtlety: love is stronger than ideology; peaceful compromise is better than violent radicalism (Harry might as well wear a black Stetson); sport builds character. Still, even the obvious moments are often touching and poignant: the Catholics hesitantly welcoming Protestants back to the gym for the first time in 30 years, a child at the gym asking the meaning of the word nonsectarian, Danny explaining how good it is to feel pain after 14 years of feeling nothing, and the entire series of awkward glances and brief mutterings that constitute Danny and Maggie's courtship.
What makes the film work, despite its familiar trappings, are the performances
of Day-Lewis and Watson. Day-Lewis is very credible as a boxer, having
physically transformed himself with his usual Method obsessiveness into a
craggy, chiseled scrapper. (Call it My Left Hook.) Head-butting his way
through the picture, he conveys with a grimace all that his laconic dialogue
leaves unsaid. Watson, too, is reined in (especially compared to her
all-stops-pulled-out debut in Breaking the Waves), making it seem like
an act of courage just to thaw slowly, as she does over the course of the
story. Theirs is the most adult romance of any recent film, as their shared
awareness of a lifetime of consequences and costs plays out continuously on
their faces.
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