 "Race has all the makings of a conventional Hollywood sports biopic")
Race has all the makings of a conventional Hollywood sports biopic: a young athlete brought up in an indigent American neighbourhood who is joined by a legendary coach whose own athletic career failed to reach the heights it once promised. What do the two do together? Win medals. Lots of medals. Just that this time, the protagonist is no ordinary athlete. Race chronicles the career of Jesse Owens, whose Nazi-defying performance at the 1936 Berlin Olympics made him a towering symbol of black America. The story of Owens is what makes this film special.
The film begins in 1933, when Owens (Stephan James) leaves his home in Cleveland to start college at the Ohio State University. There he meets Larry Snyder (Jason Sudeikis), a former athlete who fell agonisingly short of making the US Olympic team for the 1924 Paris Games. Director Stephen Hopkins wastes little time in catapulting Owens into the thick of an intriguing amalgamation of sports and politics at the time.
Under the tutelage of Snyder, Owens sets college meets alight, obliterating world records in ways Usain Bolt I’m quite sure can’t even fathom. Snyder’s unorthodox training methods help Owens go from precocious, raw talent to intimidating world-beater. Snyder, who downs copious amounts of expensive whiskey throughout the film, is like a father-figure to Owens, who is obsessed with helping the kid land a bagful of gold medals at the 1936 Berlin Olympics.
Hopkins must be complimented for his smart choice of title, but he barely touches upon the subject sufficiently, often skimming the surface with an area that is supposed to be the heartbeat of the film. Owens’s racial struggles are encapsulated in a few minor incidents that scarcely reflect the trauma that blacks were subjected to during the period.
He is called predictable names by a bunch of white buffoons in his college locker room, debunked by Adolf Hitler during the Games and later asked to take the service entrance at a formal dinner meet. Beyond that, Owens leads a relatively comfortable life with the tag of a hero of the downtrodden. Owens’s struggle with racism is far too simplistic and non-confrontational. It is almost too safe.
Writers Joe Shrapnel and Anna Waterhouse have done well to avoid the temptation to chart Owens’ life from start to finish, intelligently allowing his running to be the hero the script. The scene where Owens gingerly walks into Berlin’s Olympic Stadium to raucous applause, his eyes blinded by the golden sunlight, is one of the standouts of the film. Another where a sprucely-dressed Snyder tries his hand at broad jump in the middle of the night, the camera fixed on him from top after a rocky landing, deserves equal applause.
Hopkins’s lack of attention to detail though is startling. Owens wins an astounding four gold medals at the greatest sporting event in the world with absolutely no coaching instructions and negligible planning. Surely, natural ability alone could not have taken him to the pinnacle of track & field.
The histrionics, in most parts, are underwhelmimg. For a film that captures the career of perhaps the most celebrated sprinter in history, a heavier dose of theatrics would have been appreciated. Also, at two hours and 14 minutes, the duration of Race is not as quick as Owens’s running speed. Sometimes, you wish it was. Hopkins trudges along at the pace of an Emil Zátopek or Haile Gebrselassie instead. Yet, Race is engrossing and more importantly, charming.
James’s performance is sincere. Not only does he manage to look like Owens, but also pulls off his running style remarkably well. His co-star, Sudeikis, must be lauded for his portrayal of an egotistic, yet inspiring coach. Race is devoid of any cinematic greatness; it is an honest, studiously made film that gives you a fleeting glimpse of Owens’s journey as an athlete and American hero. It doesn’t quite storm past the finish line, but it does get there in the end.
The film begins in 1933, when Owens (Stephan James) leaves his home in Cleveland to start college at the Ohio State University. There he meets Larry Snyder (Jason Sudeikis), a former athlete who fell agonisingly short of making the US Olympic team for the 1924 Paris Games. Director Stephen Hopkins wastes little time in catapulting Owens into the thick of an intriguing amalgamation of sports and politics at the time.
Under the tutelage of Snyder, Owens sets college meets alight, obliterating world records in ways Usain Bolt I’m quite sure can’t even fathom. Snyder’s unorthodox training methods help Owens go from precocious, raw talent to intimidating world-beater. Snyder, who downs copious amounts of expensive whiskey throughout the film, is like a father-figure to Owens, who is obsessed with helping the kid land a bagful of gold medals at the 1936 Berlin Olympics.
Hopkins must be complimented for his smart choice of title, but he barely touches upon the subject sufficiently, often skimming the surface with an area that is supposed to be the heartbeat of the film. Owens’s racial struggles are encapsulated in a few minor incidents that scarcely reflect the trauma that blacks were subjected to during the period.
He is called predictable names by a bunch of white buffoons in his college locker room, debunked by Adolf Hitler during the Games and later asked to take the service entrance at a formal dinner meet. Beyond that, Owens leads a relatively comfortable life with the tag of a hero of the downtrodden. Owens’s struggle with racism is far too simplistic and non-confrontational. It is almost too safe.
Writers Joe Shrapnel and Anna Waterhouse have done well to avoid the temptation to chart Owens’ life from start to finish, intelligently allowing his running to be the hero the script. The scene where Owens gingerly walks into Berlin’s Olympic Stadium to raucous applause, his eyes blinded by the golden sunlight, is one of the standouts of the film. Another where a sprucely-dressed Snyder tries his hand at broad jump in the middle of the night, the camera fixed on him from top after a rocky landing, deserves equal applause.
Hopkins’s lack of attention to detail though is startling. Owens wins an astounding four gold medals at the greatest sporting event in the world with absolutely no coaching instructions and negligible planning. Surely, natural ability alone could not have taken him to the pinnacle of track & field.
The histrionics, in most parts, are underwhelmimg. For a film that captures the career of perhaps the most celebrated sprinter in history, a heavier dose of theatrics would have been appreciated. Also, at two hours and 14 minutes, the duration of Race is not as quick as Owens’s running speed. Sometimes, you wish it was. Hopkins trudges along at the pace of an Emil Zátopek or Haile Gebrselassie instead. Yet, Race is engrossing and more importantly, charming.
James’s performance is sincere. Not only does he manage to look like Owens, but also pulls off his running style remarkably well. His co-star, Sudeikis, must be lauded for his portrayal of an egotistic, yet inspiring coach. Race is devoid of any cinematic greatness; it is an honest, studiously made film that gives you a fleeting glimpse of Owens’s journey as an athlete and American hero. It doesn’t quite storm past the finish line, but it does get there in the end.
