Invictus
Stories are told and retold for a number of reasons, not the least of which is their ability to move and inspire. True stories have a resonance which is somewhat different than their fictional counterparts. These stories are historically based in a way that fictional stories may not be, and we tune into the characters and their trials and tribulations for, perhaps, different reasons. However, a true story, like any story, must be told well.
Recently, several “Based on a True Story” films have fallen far short of the mark, leaving us feeling that we have been duped. Where is the emotion, the raw intensity of a human being’s life circumstances forcing them to rise above the plain of mere mortals and into the realm of the hero? If it’s in the story, it’s in the story. If it isn’t, it isn’t. Infusing emotion where it doesn’t need it accomplishes little more than the forceful extraction of emotions from viewers and the subverting of any notion of sincerity, often in scenes whose truth is evident without overhauled emotionalism.
Like The Blind Side before it (though Invictus is better in many ways), this film attempts to tell a very good story, of historical and political import, revealing the truths of patriotic unity and the tribalism that can result in soul-stirring nationalism. It succeeds in part due to the performances from Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela and Matt Damon as Francois Pienaar, the captain of South Africa’s rugby team. Damon, while still quite good, chose to play this character with his mouth shut. He rarely opened his mouth enough to be audible, and his accent changed frequently throughout the film, as though he couldn’t quite find the placement in his mouth for the South African dialect. Rarely does one criticize the smallest parts in a film, but here, they were dreadful. The rugby players with only a few speaking lines were about as good as a 15-year-old making his high school debut in Oklahoma! It appears that they found people who looked the part, but couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag.
Emoting is not only a writing/acting dilemma; it can be held ransom by a director. Clint Eastwood knows what he’s doing. He’s been around the block more times than most people ever imagine in one lifetime. With Invictus, he comes up so short it almost doesn’t make sense, as if he had a ghost-director, much like a politician writing a memoir. With as much experience and skill as Eastwood has, it’s a pity he produced such a self-ingratiating look at an already politically charged story of one nation’s rallying cry under the banner of athletics. The movement of the camera was sporadic at times when it didn’t seem to make sense and methodically emotional at times that certainly didn’t seem to require it. The only camera work that is worthy of honorable mention is during the rugby matches themselves, though even that was often ruined by sentimental music, which, throughout the film, was more along the lines of a sappy trailer than anything else. This story is not a tear-jerker, but Eastwood does his absolute best to see to it that you shed a few ersatz tears. (He doesn’t succeed, by the way.)
If the attempts to jerk tears from your eyes aren’t enough, the film also breaches the unspoken pact of historicity. Minor differences are expected and trivial, but the title of the film, and the eponymous poem, plays a largely fabricated role. Mandela, while in prison, had a slip of paper with the poem “Invictus” on it (written by William Henley). While this poem was personally inspirational in his life, the selection that he gave to Pienaar before the critical match was actually an excerpt of Theodore Roosevelt’s “The Man in the Arena” speech: “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming.” Historically speaking, the film takes its strongest thematic element (not to mention its name, for God’s sake) from something that isn’t quite right.
Fortunately, one can come away from this film learning two very important maxims. First, any story, fictional or not, may be very poignant as it is, but the telling of that story is equally as important, if not more so. Second, one can walk away from this film having witnessed the power of sport. Athletics, like politics and religion, can drive people apart or pull them together. The purpose of athletics, as in politics and religion, is the ascent of the human spirit, the pursuit of perfection through competition, and international competition does this on a grand stage. The story itself is inspiring and rings true, but the film, as divorced as possible from the story, is lackluster and emotionally overwrought. I would say rent it for the historical aspect, but even that isn’t entirely worth the effort. Watch a scene or two for Freeman’s Mandela, then find the book on which Invictus is based. It’s bound to better than the film.
Rating: 2/4 Stars
