There’s no denying that Bennett Miller’s fog-strewn and frosty Foxcatcher is weighed heavy with cuts of juicy Oscar bait. But it’s also an enthralling piece of cinema that explores drive, jealousy and the darker side sport, among other things.
Mark Schultz – played by a grotesquely muscle-bound and under-biting Channing Tatum – is an Olympic gold medal-winning wrestler, but few seem to have noticed. His charismatic brother, David (Mark Ruffalo), is the celebrated one – a composed and content national treasure blessed with a beautiful family.
Depressed and frustrated, but uneeringly focused on the next big event, Mark makes his way from a dingy, trophy-cluttered apartment to a talk with uninterested school kids and on to the rundown gym where he and Dave train together. He’s like a clenched fist, holding firmly and furiously on to the only thing he’s ever known, however unrewarding his endeavours might be.
When John Du Pont (Steve Carell), a filthy-rich philanthropist whose family owes its fortune to centuries of ammunition production, offers Mark the cash and facilities to make his unappreciative nation great again – by winning a few more medals – he simply can’t refuse. He moves out to Du Pont’s Pennsylvania mansion, where the mist hangs low and the US flag flutters pathetically against a grey and overcast sky.
What follows is a gripping, deeply unsettling and somewhat oblique narrative, looking at the strange dynamics of, and aspirations behind, Du Pont’s bizarre mentorship. Based on a true story, the film presents a passing glimpse at the oddest and most destructive of maternal relationships – a brief discussion about a train set speaks volumes.
The three main actors each deliver the performance of their respective careers, surpassing everything you’ve come to expect from them.
Comic master Carell is unrecognisable and majestic. Far more difficult to watch than Michael Scott, of the American Office, has ever been, he’s like a quiet and sinister Mr Burns made real. Short and feeble, he wanders the screen with his hands behind his back and his head in the air like a spoilt, confused child lurching from elation to tantrum with disconcerting unpredictability.
While Tatum is refreshingly ugly and un-likeable, Ruffalo’s control and geniality are the perfect foil to Carell’s erratic Du Pont. But more than a sum of its performances, Foxcatcher is distinct and unforgettable. It’s a chilling thriller about the fragility of the American Dream, its spillage into sport, and its tendency to warp and destroy those who insist on chasing it. Expect lots of Academy attention.
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