Foxcatcher

A true crime story that rings about as true as a soap opera plotline, a character study of flat, unvarying characters, and a drama that aims to say a lot but doesn’t even manage the dramatic part, Foxcacher is one bad movie. Nearly every element of it is done poorly, turning what could have been an interesting tale (and it is an interesting story) into a sleepy, depressing bore of a picture.

The story is that of John du Pont, the heir of a wealthy family who founded a wrestling training center in the late 1980s that attracted the Olympic athlete brothers Dave and Mark Schultz. Nearly a decade later, this arrangement ended in a tragic murder. The film sets to explore why this happened (highly speculatively, I should add), focusing mainly on Mark Schultz (Channing Tatum), who despite his success still feels trapped in the shadow of his brother Dave (Mark Ruffalo). When rich fan of the sport Du Pont (Steve Carell) offers to sponsor him and provide him the space to train, he sees his chance to make a name for himself and takes it. Things start well enough, but eventually Du Pont’s demons turn the relationship toxic.

Tatum is one of the few positives in the picture, with the convincing physicality of a wrestler and a terse intensity that’s effective. His snarl and facial features convincingly convey jealousy, inadequacy, pain, and drive without even saying a word. It’s an interesting view at the darker elements of an athlete’s competitive spirit, rather than the uplifting inspirational stuff too often seen in sports movies.

Carell’s acting, on the other hand, seems to consist of little more than latex and Valium. His publicized prosthetic nose seems engineered to always look like he’s looking down it (it doesn’t help that he seems to tilt his head back in half his scenes), as if to suggest some element of class conflict (further exploration of this theme is not as unsubtle but equally simplistic). Every delivery of his is weak and tired. When it’s his character’s time to show some emotion or intensity, he comes off like Brick Tamland from Anchorman, only not funny. Except for one scene (albeit unintentionally), in which he and Tatum share cocaine, and the tone can’t seem to decide if it’s a dark turning point in the story or a tender moment between the two.

The film plays up the latter angle, that Schultz and Du Pont are sort of kindred spirits trying to escape the shadow of their families, and it just rings so false. Even if you don’t know the ultimate outcome, it’s highly obvious from the second the two meet that something about this relationship is off. Every bit of pathos between the two is empty and forced, draining the narrative of any emotional resonance and the final tragedy of any weight. And it’s kind of a moot point, but the conflict that leads to such an end—mommy issues between Carell and Vanessa Redgrave’s little-seen crusty, proper snob—is pretty passé plotting, as well.

The movie is obviously angling to be a prestige picture, and has all the aesthetic trappings just begging for award show recognition: actors undergoing physical transformation, dead serious highbrow subject matter, a somber piano score (as if relentless dreariness automatically translates to dramatic depth), those not-quite-slo-mo sequences with no sound to emphasize emotional intensity. But like Carell’s Mr. Burns schnozz, these trappings can’t conceal the fact that what’s underneath is subpar. With its bad melodrama and simplistic analysis of characters and events, Foxcatcher is the macho male equivalent of a bad Lifetime movie.