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In Bennett Miller's new film Foxcatcher, which premiered at the Cannes Film Festival today, we see an actor do something probably many of us didn't think he was capable of. Guided by Miller's careful hand, this actor does intelligent, understated work that will earn him raves and maybe some awards. Were it not such a hacky thing to say in a movie review, I might be tempted to call his performance a revelation.
You may think I'm talking about Steve Carell, the comedian who's shed his antic shtick and applied some prosthetics to play John du Pont, the heir turned murderer whose obsession with wrestling and two of the sport's biggest stars gives this movie its chilling, sad story. Carell will likely earn a raft of praise for his deeply unsettling performance, but to my mind the real performance to talk about is Channing Tatum's.
Yes, Channing Tatum, everyone's favorite hunk
who can do comedy, action, and romance with equal aplomb. Here, playing wrestler Mark Schultz, Tatum shows us that he's also able to mute his inherent swagger and turn inward, communicating deep currents of pain and longing in subtle and intricate ways. Schultz was perpetually in the shadow of his older brother, Dave, even though both won Olympic gold medals in 1984. Mark wants to prove something to himself, to the world, to his brother, so badly that he's become a creature of a single instinct.
At one point in the film, Mark tells du Pont that even his own victory was credited to Dave in some way, Tatum speaking in the guarded tones of a hyper-masculine guy who's not terribly comfortable expressing emotion, let alone his most closely held resentments. Tatum fills his scenes with this complex pathos through slight changes in posture and expression. The way Mark carries himself tells its own complicated story; he's athletically nimble and yet somehow weighted down, curling under a psychological burden that's forever pressing him into the mat.
Playing Dave, Mark Ruffalo is also excellent, doing another riff on his soft-voiced sensitive guy. Dave loves his brother but is stymied by his personal torments. How can he alleviate his brother's pain when he's the unintentional source of it?
As the man who comes between the brothers, Carell, slack-jawed and shuffling, is a rather terrifying vision of extraordinary wealth begetting, or certainly at least stoking, a dehumanized view of the world as purchasable, and thus easily controlled. Du Pont is desperate to be seen as a hero and champion of the sport he loves, and ensnares the talented Schultzes in his strange game of world-building by having them come train at the facility built on the massive
estate that gives the film its title. Carell speaks in a clipped near-whisper, his eyelids drooping, making his eyes two black beads. He certainly transforms for the role, but I couldn't help feeling vaguely put off by the stunt craft of it all. His presence in the film, in this stylized and creepy role, is too showy, and too funny at times, in a movie that otherwise is simple and, despite its darkness, elegant.
I'm also not sure I really buy Miller's last message to the audience, perhaps nudging us to see the deeper American meaning in this tragic story. I suppose you could view du Pont as the one percenters, megalomaniacally exploiting and destroying hard-working people who are simply trying to better their lives. But it's an unnecessary, and admittedly only lightly hinted at, thematic reach, as the movie's psychological inspections are fascinating enough.
Still, this is my favorite film at the festival so far. Somber, smart, and deeply humane, Foxcatcher will likely do big things come (dreaded, anticipated) awards season. Channing Tatum might soon enough be an Oscar nominee, you guys.
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