Million Dollar Baby

I caught Clint Eastwood's latest masterpiece last night, and despite a firm commitment to sleep in today after hitting bed past 1:00, I've been awake since before 6:00 a.m., unable to shake this gritty film from my mind.

That this movie probably won't win the Oscar breaks my heart.

This is one of those rare movies that shouldn't be spoken of in reviews. Its emotion and power far outweighs that brought by any other cinematic contender in at least the last year, maybe the last few. Its end content is the stuff of heady debate and emotional conflict that should and will leave nearly any viewer impacted and perhaps torn, but to talk about why would rob you of precisely what makes this experience so rewarding and, dare I say it, profound.

(See it, though, before the media does decide to rob you.)

A story of a female boxer's journey, brilliantly played by Hilary Swank, this movie is based on one of the finest, best crafted screenplays I've seen in a long, long while. Swank, considering her close work with Eastwood on this, will probably never be the same as an actress, and it's a good thing. A good actress before this, she'll probably remain a great one for the rest of her career. Eastwood has made sure of that.

The aging icon's impact on the actors he directs will be one of his lasting legacies. His body of work grows increasingly impressive each passing year, but to have come out with both Mystic River and Million Dollar Baby in the last five years would have been an exceptional accomplishment for anyone. To do it inside of three years, though, is awe-inspiring. (MDB is the better of the two, though, and more affective.)

Clint's age, 77, worries me. I'm saddened at the thought that this man has a date with death in likely the decade to come. Obviously I'm an intelligent person; I didn't really think he was immortal. I just wish he was.

Despite beginning to hit his stride with Play Misty For Me, it still tooks years for Eastwood to tap into that thing that makes him tick, and find a way to put it out there for us all. And I want more, and as long as he continues with work like this, that want won't be fading.

I do find comfort, though, in the knowledge that Clint will not stop working until his death, as morbid the thought is. But it's evident in every shot of his recent films just how much he loves the art he creates, and maybe that's what will keep him going.

The man's an international treasure, but his death is probably the only "true American" passing that'll ever outshine John Wayne's, and considering what Clint is that Wayne never was--a director, and one of the finest--it's easy to understand why.

I can't help but think that Clint's made his own eulogy and possibly even his last will and testament by crafting this film. It's a fine statement, but a sad one, since it's the first time his end seems inevitable.

If the Oscars can't see what makes MDB one of the most powerful tales told on celluloid in our recent past, then you know the fight's been rigged.