Rocky III

You know the difference between a good friend and a great friend? A good friend gives you all the ROCKY movies for your birthday; a great friend gives you all the ROCKY movies, minus ROCKY V, for your birthday.

ROCKY III has a great beginning: we start with the opening bars of the Bill Conti anthem, then segue into "Eye of the Tiger" for the opening montage that tells us what Rocky's been up to. "Eye of the Tiger" is perfect for dancing with a baby, and it's so catchy that my older boy has been making, "Dvvt. Dvvvvt dvvvvt dvvt." noises for the last three days. ROCKY III is slicker than the two previous entries in the franchise, and this works as a reflection of Rocky's new, slicker life. He's on the covers of magazines. He has a custom tailor and a nice house. He looks like a body builder and not a power lifter. He thinks he has it all together, but Mickey knows better: he's lost his hunger.

Enter Mister T as Clubber Lang, easily the best of Rocky's opponents. He's dedicated, he's tough, he's mean, and he gives the greatest pre-fight interview imaginable:
"What's your prediction for the fight?"
"My prediction?"
"Yes, your prediction."
(Looks into camera)
"Paaaaiiiiinnnnnn!"
Man, I had to rewind that twice.

The film takes us through a crisis of confidence, a training montage that is absolutely out of this world, and an extraordinarily well-choreographed final bout that's a masterpiece of choreography, cinematography, editing, and sound design. If real boxing was half as exciting as a ROCKY movie, I'd watch it all the time.

Murderball

MURDERBALL wants to have it both ways. It demands that we see its subjects as regular guys, not quadriplegics, but it has a problem: most of these guys are assholes. In trying to overcome this handicap, it goes with shameless heartstring-pulling, an emotional manipulation dependent on the fact that no, these guys aren't regular at all, but courageous quadriplegics. Which is it, gang?

It's a standard documentary formula, and it worked for RIZE: find a subculture, select some sympathetic members of that subculture, and show how the subculture has helped them overcome their handicaps. This subculture happens to be the one of elite wheelchair rugby, a bone-jarring, highly competitive full contact sport. Its sympathetic members include Mark Zurpan, a dominant player for Team USA, and Joe Soares, the coach of archrival Canada. They hate each other and I didn't much like either of them. They're both louts, though Soares does develop over the course of the film. Unfortunately, these principles, as well as other team members, refuse to discuss how their subculture has helped them: they're too busy pouring their hearts into it to leave much room for reflection.

So what we're left with, really, is a documentary about a couple of seasons in the life of a rugby team. That would be fine, but the filmmakers don't have enough faith in that story to run with it and really sell their point. Instead, they spend significant time with a recently injured quadriplegic man who for whom wheelchair rugby might be a reason to live. They end with the team's visit to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where they introduce the sport to wounded soldiers just back from the war. These detours are emotionally engaging, but they focus our attention on these guys' handicaps, rather than their athleticism.

MURDERBALL wants to be a sports documentary. MURDERBALL wants to be a documentary about quadriplegics overcoming their handicaps. MURDERBALL doesn't have the courage to be either, or both. Given the material, MURDERBALL could have been great. Too bad its lack of courage stops it in its tracks.