As the Berlin Olympics draw near, the USA is threatening to boycott the games if the hosts don’t allow Jews to compete in the German team. The Nazis are caught between a rock and a hard place – they are keen to show off their sporting prowess, but unfortunately the best female high jumper is Gretel Bergmann, a Jew. In an attempt to appease those pesky Yanks, the Nazis order Gretel back from England to compete, but at the same time line up a competitor for her title, Marie Ketteler (Sebastian Urzendowsky), who just happens to be a male transvestite.

This ‘true story’ is almost too bizarre to believe (were the two competitors really roommates?) but it highlights just how… well, idiotic fanaticism can be – in the face of scientific and/or common sense opposition, the only solution is apparently to dig your heels in deeper.

Karoline Herfurth is stunning in the lead role. This was a young woman who was so alone yet felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. Understandably, she is conflicted – should she go for gold to show up the regime, or should she refuse to represent her country which she so despises? Herfurth shows resilience and fragility in the face of such a mighty decision, and the overall success of the film rests upon her shoulders. Urzendowsky is good as Marie, though it’s hard to believe that anyone would ever confuse him for a girl. Axel Prahl is brilliant as their trainer, the man who does his best to be fair within the increasingly stifling regime.

German film is so often introspective in the sense that it seems to be forever analysing the recent history of the country. It’s possible that it’s only films concerned with the Holocaust/autocracy/fascism that make it all the way overseas, but nevertheless Germany seems to have a thriving industry that isn’t afraid to question their country’s past. It’s interesting when you compare it to, for instance, Japan, which, in my experience, focuses on the horrid outcome of war rather than the causes.

Berlin ’36 is a strong drama though it falters in the final act, veering horribly close to becoming a run of the mill sports film. This doesn’t counteract the power of this very personal story which has massive ramifications, or the stunning central performance of Herfurth.

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Mickey Rourke is fantastic as washed-up pro wrestler Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, and I can’t remember a performance in recent years that elicited so much sympathy. This film almost constantly had me on the verge of tears. Here’s a man that was only ever good at one thing – wearing tights and beating the crap out of other bulked-up guys in rehearsed violence – and both his body and his fame are giving up on him. He was never so good at the other stuff – his estranged daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachael Wood) wants nothing to do with him, his landlord has locked him out of his trailer pending owed rent money, and his boss at the local supermarket can’t spare any extra shifts. He doesn’t really have any friends, excepting ‘Cassidy’ (Marisa Tomei), a stripper at the local bar. You don’t have to think very hard to see how the two have something in common – they’re both performers in highly popular forms of entertainment that paradoxically provoke the most disdain.

When it comes to the wrestling, this film is eye opening. It’s astounding seeing close up what these guys get up to in the ring, and even stranger to see all the blokes in the dressing room afterwards, the best of mates. It really is a bizarre little community, but they share a surprisingly solid bond.

The film is shot in a decidedly low budget manner that aims for realism – the camera’s often handheld, and the lighting very dim – but it’s beautiful all the same. Aronofsky manages to make us comfortable amidst all the spandex, bad hair and 80’s metal. He also deliberately eschews narrative expectations on several occasions, so much so that we begin to almost expect it to do the unexpected. Some of these decisions ring true; others feel as if they exist purely for the sake of contrariness, which makes the film less than perfect.

The Wrestler is a wonderful film, though not one I’d rush to see again. So many moments in this film are heartbreaking, and I left feeling more than a little run down myself. It’d take an awful lot to get me back into that ring.

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When Toronto Maple Leafs hockey star Darren Roanoke (Romany Malco) loses form after separating from his wife just before the playoffs, team owner Jane Bullard (Jessica Alba) enlists the help of Guru Pitka (Mike Myers), the second greatest guru in the United States. After growing up in India under the tutelage of Guru Tugginmypudha (Ben Kingsley), Pitka has achieved fame and fortune with his only remaining goal being to replace Deepak Chopra on ‘Oprah’ and reach a larger audience for his trademarked version of self-help.

Mike Myers’ schtick has worn thin over the years and The Love Guru does nothing to change the perception that he is a one hit wonder. It is a long time since Wayne’s World and Austin Powers, and apart from the first in the Shrek series, his output has been pretty miserable. The same can be said for his co-star Alba, who surely must be wearing out her welcome with the Hollywood money-men. The Eye, Good Luck Chuck and now The Love Guru have all been critically panned and tanked at the box office. Were it not for the Fantastic Four films she may be close to the most unbankable ‘major’ star going around.

It is easy to imagine how the film could go so bad – have a writer/star/producer surrounded by his buddies (director Marco Schnabel worked on all three Austin Powers films while co-star Verne Troyer appeared in the latter two) and there’s a fair chance there was just no-one around to know things were so badly off track. Even still, someone had to sign on the dotted line and it is a wonder they wouldn’t have realised this had ‘turkey’ written all over it.

The laughs are nearly non-existent while the sports scenes are predictable and the musical interludes uninspired. Critics of the mock-Bollywood film Bride and Prejudice would have a field day if forced to endure the song and dance numbers in The Love Guru, but thankfully hardly anyone will see it to complain.

It is hard to see how Myers can continue to get his films greenlit yet a quick look on IMDb suggests he has several in the works, not the least of which is Shrek Goes Fourth. It seems audiences will be ‘lucky’ enough to see/hear him for a bit longer still, even though his films continue to get excrementally worse.

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Huck Cheever (Eric Bana) is a poker player tormented by the success of his father, dual World Champion L. C. Cheever (Robert Duvall), whom he resents for running out on his family to pursue his professional poker dream. Making one bad choice after another, he is trying to raise the funds to buy a stool at the next World Series Tournament, but is continually thwarted by his own ego and temper. A chance encounter with new girl in town, bar singer Billie Offer (Drew Barrymore), may just lead to enough personal growth that he can climb out of the hole he lives in, but will his rivalry with his father allow him to?

If it sounds a little weak, blame writer-director Curtis Hanson who most recently brought In Her Shoes and 8 Mile to our screens. His take on the world of professional gambling is dull and trite, and features a script filled with such banalities as Barrymore’s Offer being forced to opine ‘You know what I think? I think that everyone’s just trying not to be lonely’. Then there is the profound ‘You play cards the way you should lead your life. And you lead your life the way you should play cards’. Or even ‘You raised me with nothing? Sometimes nothing is enough’.

If the script isn’t failing this film, it is the over-reliance on table-top battles to imbue dramatic tension that is. One more ‘return to the dollar bets matches to recoup losses and start over’ sequence and most of the audience would be shaking their heads with disbelief. Huck climbs and then falls so often, it just doesn’t matter if it happens again, as there is never a concern he won’t make it to the big match. There are so many shots of hole cards being examined and chips being tossed, one wonders whether any of the footage has been recycled in an effort to cut production costs. Poker may be an entertaining diversion as a TV ‘sport’, but as the prime mover in a feature film it just doesn’t provide enough twists.

Bana can’t be held responsible for the problems of Lucky You, bringing a subtley to his performance that is a pleasure to watch. His face betrays the emotions criss-crossing his mind, and his body language and even his walk are spot on. Opposite Barrymore, he positively glows, she being insipid and energy-sapping in turn. Duvall gets to have some fun, which is a small pleasure amongst the (Bana aside) otherwise bland offerings.

As entertainment, Lucky You paraphrases its script… sometimes nothing is nothing.

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Not for Rocky the riches and lifestyle of modern sportstars – running a small restaurant (with the only attraction being a chat with the slurring former fighter), and sitting at the grave of his now deceased wife Adrian, is a far cry from the life lead by his eventual opponent, Mason “The Line” Dixon. Dixon’s hefty endorsement package and life of bling are at direct odds with Rocky’s sparse world. For this to be a Rocky film, however, there has to be a sentimental message, and in this case, Rocky has some work to do on himself.

With ongoing grief over the loss of Adrian, and frustration at the breakdown in his relationship with his son, Rocky finds he has still got some boxing within. Anyone who has seen the trailer – or any other Rocky film for that matter – will know where this is going to end, and the true measure of the success of this Rocky film is that a more cynical modern audience will still be prepared to accept the overly sentimental speeches and emotionally manipulative ‘big moments’ on the path to Rocky’s resolution. This is no small achievement, as there are several sequences – particularly those dealing with Rocky and his son Rocky Jr. – that are about as subtle as the use of ‘Gonna Fly Now (Theme From Rocky)’ throughout the soundtrack to guide our appreciation.

Stallone is excellent as Rocky, bringing a subtle take on the character that is removed from pomp and allows the story of the ageing fighter to hit home. His frustrations and loneliness are demonstrated effectively, and his portrayal of the underdog is another reason the audience will be cheering him (just as the thousands in the crowd are) by the end. Burt Young reprises Paulie, and although he does have several hurdles of his own to cross, these seem incidental and are left somewhat unresolved in what is a significant miscalculation. Milo Ventimiglia’s Rocky Jr. seems to come around to adoring son far too easily, and Geraldine Hughes as Little Marie does her best in a limited role that perhaps doesn’t fill the hole left by Adrian.

The pacing and balance of the film are also problematic, with the early sections mostly character data that is important to bringing the audience around to supporting the ageing hero again, but which seem to swamp the training and fight sequences later in the film. The necessary inclusion of Rocky’s physical rebuilding echoes that of the original but isn’t nearly as inspiring, but the boxing scenes are effective.

Audiences are likely to be moved as Rocky ‘The Italian Stallion’ Balboa fights one last time, in spite of the many flaws of the film. Unbalanced, overly manipulative in its use of soundtrack and scripting, and featuring a range of half-drawn characters, Rocky Balboa is still enjoyable, and a fitting end to the series.

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Evidently, the request to use several big-name players in the film itself required a FIFA sanction, and this allowed them to demand script-approval. It certainly seems the story has been tampered with – instead of a realistic portrayal of the difficulties that face a young star in a new life of wealth and fame, we are presented with a schmaltzy mess of cliché and happy endings. No writer could honestly present this tale as a believable work of fiction.

Santiago Munez (Kuno Becker) gets more chances at the big time than is conceivable, (and continues to blow them), and this is perhaps the weakest element of Goal! For while one or two mis-steps might be let go, there is no way a professional sporting club like Newcastle United would have tolerated the antics of this young man. The writers seem to have wanted to include more and more trouble for their hero to face, when the film would certainly have been stronger for having one or two less crises. This may also have reduced the running time of 118 minutes, which is really quite excessive for an extremely simple tale of triumph over adversity.

The fact that Munez is even given the opportunity is one of the more laughable aspects of Goal!, and speaks to the filmmakers’ (or FIFA’s?) desire to say that anything is possible if you believe – a worthy sentiment, but one so out of keeping with the realities of modern sport that it is a tough one to sell. The fantasy-like atmosphere utterly betrays the film; when it is shooting for inspirational, it scores only laughable.

Laughable is also a good word to describe the input of real-life superstars David Beckham, Zinédine Zidane and Raul Gonzalez, who share a nightclub scene of intense embarassment. At least the performance of Alan Shearer isn’t completely abysmal, but as his only line is a grunt, most would have succeeded.

The action sequences are generally well done, although the real footage and that showing the non-player stars Becker and Alessandro Nivola are cut together quite poorly, and it never seems they are truly sharing the same field. Becker is adequate in a role with very little dramatic interest, and although his character is completely whitewashed, Nivola gets to have a little fun as ‘bad boy’ Gavin Harris. His eventual redemption at the hands of Munez is ridiculous in conception, however, and lends the final act a sense of absurdity I’m quite sure was not the intention.

Forming the first part of a trilogy – three films were planned prior to the release of this first, suggesting either over-confidence on behalf of the backers, or that they don’t actually care how the films are received as long as they are getting the brand to the forefront – one can hardly wait for this ridiculous story to develop even further. Perhaps Munez can play in the World Cup for his native Mexico and win them their first ever title with a score in the final seconds? Trite, clichéd and full of overly manipulative sentiment, Goal! is really only for football fans.

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Barrymore (50 First Dates) is radiant as ever, although I wonder if she’s sick of making these lightweight romcoms. Jimmy Fallon (Taxi) is perfect, and his performance hints at a very broad acting range. Having a relatively fresh face in attendance certainly worked in the film’s favour, and the two performers bounce off each other wonderfully. The supporting cast seem a bit awkward, with some stilted deliveries, but this often seems to be the case with the Farrelly brothers’ movies.

The directing team have been fairly restrained in their latest feature – there’s only the faintest whiff of potty humour here. They may be getting soft after all these years, but The Perfect Catch certainly isn’t as overwhelmingly sentimental or quite the morality tale that Shallow Hal was.

Thankfully the film places the viewer in the position of the outsider, assuming that we, like Lindsey know little or nothing of baseball. This helps us to sympathise with Barrymore’s character, who effectively finds herself suddenly in a very alien culture. It was easy for me to relate to such a predicament: I can’t imagine anything worse than dating a sports nut.

As sickly sweet and predictable as it is, I found myself grinning like a dolt throughout most of The Perfect Catch. The main drawback is the top and tail voice over, which is horrendous (and almost offensive with its exaggerated accent) and certainly leaves one with a bad taste in the mouth. Though it sometimes tries too hard and often feels a little contrived, The Perfect Catch does what all romantic comedies should: it effectively tugs at the heartstrings and admirably encourages our cravings for a happy ending.

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The stories include Mark Zupan, injured as an 18 year old, and now the poster child both of the sport and this film. With massive determination to win, an on-screen charisma unmatched by many Hollywood actors, and a pre-morbid angry streak – old school friends comment that blaming his mood and attitude on his injury would be false, he was like this before he got hurt – he stalks around the court, careening at full speed into others with the hope of knocking their chairs over. Controlling a modified wheelchair, that seems more like a wheel-tank and has prompted comparisons to Mad Max, he is an elite sportsman in an elite sport.

Another character featured is Keith Cavill, a motocross rider until his accident left him a partial quadriplegic several months before we meet him. Following him through rehabilitation, and then seeing his release home and his first exposure to Murderball via Mark Zupan, we are given an amazing insight into injury and recovery. The access given to the filmmakers allows us to see his first moments at home, when he finally realises his life will never be the same again. Stroking his motorbike helmet and staring at his bike wondering what will be, and then gleefully refusing to get out of the competition wheelchair and wanting to bump into Zupan to really try it out, we are shown that sport can heal as well as harm.

The balance between showing us the many stories, but not falling into cloying sentimentality, is beautifully managed by the directors as this could easily have become a soppy tale. Not once did this line get crossed. Instead, we are treated to the humour of these athletes, their amusement at tales of sexual conquest and their determination to succeed in their sport. We never feel sorry for these men, and nor should we – one athlete tells us of their trip to the Athens Paralympic Games – “We’re not going for a hug – we’re going for a fucking gold medal”.

The action scenes showing the playing of the sport itself are deftly handled, and provide an exciting counterpoint to the more quiet, reflective periods. The brutality of this sport, it seems, lies in the eyes of the beholder – these men are athletes, and expect to be competing with athletes, and it is only their injuries and deformities that stopped me from thinking of them as such. Sure, they run the risk of being injured, but they are competing at the top level, and my reaction says more of my own thoughts on these men and their ‘disabilities’ than it does of them.

The soundtrack includes suitably rousing heavy metal tracks, and complements the images well. The editing and direction are spot on. The choice of anecdotes, balancing sadness with humour, gradually builds our involvement with these men to the point I was quite affected by the final scenes. This is an extremely well-made piece of film.

If there is one documentary you should see in 2005, Murderball is it. If there is one sports movie you should see in 2005, this is it.

My favourite film of 2005, Murderball is incredible.

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What makes a compelling real-life story does not necessarily make a good film. Sometimes, the story needs adaptation to make it screen-worthy, sometimes it can’t be done. For whatever reason, it seems the makers of Coach Carter were more concerned with uncritically putting the events up on screen than with making them into a moving film. Friday Night Lights is another example from this year, where staying true to the real-life events in a high school football team were more important than making an interesting or thoughtful movie.

The story is actually a worthwhile one – a high school basketball coach, who in his efforts to make young men with aspirations and discipline out of a bunch of teenagers with attitude and no hopes, ended up forfeiting their games and locking them out of the gym. He provoked an outrage, with community and educational leaders, as well as parents, all accusing him of grandstanding, when all he wanted was for his charges to become something more than good three-point shots. This received national attention in the US in 1999, for obvious reasons – it challenged the orthodoxy. Athletes don’t have to be anything but athletes, do they? Why should they have to learn? Or have respect for others, or themselves?

Unfortunately, this film version does not do the real-life story justice. Weighing in at 135 minutes, Coach Carter is far too long, and contains far too much padding. One character goes twice around on the same character arc for goodness sake! Now, maybe that occurred in real life, I don’t know, but why include it in the film? It comes across as gratuitous, and even silly, and I was left wondering if I was missing the difference.

This seems to want to be a one-man character piece, but it is stopped from being one both by its form and its content. Jackson is passable as the eponymous Coach, but many of his athletes are poorly played. Maybe it was because they realised they were acting out clichés? Not one of these kids is original, not one unique. We have seen this all before, and better. Ashanti appears as a pregnant girlfriend, but is wasted.

There are moments that moved me, and I was interested in the outcome – thankfully, the eventual results are placed over the final scenes for us to read – but I couldn’t get interested in much of this. What may have been a good film was stopped by a failure to edit, and inadequate selection of material.

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It’s not as if England has an image problem, is it? Saddled with being a declining empire, and recently with being one of the only countries in the world to support George Bush’s invasion of Iraq (along with my own), they could do with some good press. Years of images of football violence across Europe have taken their toll, and hard measures have been introduced to try to combat the hooligans. But, here is a film that embraces them.

The Football Factory is a bit of a mess. Telling the story of Tommy Johnson, a mid-level member of the Chelsea ‘firm’, who likes nothing better than to beat up their arch rivals, Milwall, we spend much of this film thinking he may be getting tired of the lifestyle. We are shown things through his eyes, in a half-hearted attempt to glorify this world. He loves his mates, he loves beating heads with them. And he thinks we should too.

The firms’ use of local children, encouraging them to grow up just like their head-kicking heroes, shows a disgraceful part of this culture. These people are supposed to be grown men, and yet they’re encouraging kids to aim low, hoping they become the next generation. It’s almost as if these people need reassurance, and they seek it from kids on pushbikes, whose idolisation gives them the strength to keep living this horrible life.

With a grainy, gloomy shooting style, lots of hand-held camera, and straightforward narration, The Football Factory is going for a close-up and realistic view. We see the blood, feel the punches – this is one of this film’s only strengths. With multiple ‘flash-forwards’ and dodgy dream sequences, however, this film throws away its best feature. Why would you do that? What went through the director’s mind when he chose this route?

The final act belies all that went before it – Tommy’s questions about life, the universe and everything swallowed up in an adrenaline rush of flagellation, his hard-earned notoriety emboldening him to continue his reckless path.

The attempt at style is really the only thing good about this film, and it is discarded too quickly. A barren culture exposed, it is an indictment on England and football culture, that although it makes its point, fails to entertain.

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