In some respects, the most remarkable thing about Raging Bull is how unremarkable it is.
The bare bones of the story – boxer battles marital problems and family strife as well as the Mob as he seeks glory in the ring – do not necessarily make for the most original plot in the world. And the movie’s protagonist is not exactly a sympathetic character: misogynist, suspicious, and quick to anger, he drives away the loyal brother who had been at his side through thick and thin; after leaving his wife for a young girl whom he makes his second wife, he becomes convinced she is having an affair, beats her, and drives her away, too.
What makes the movie widely regarded as one of the very greatest works in the history of American cinema is that it is simultaneously sparing and unsparing: unsparing in its close and critical examination of the aforementioned protagonist, former middleweight champion Jake LaMotta; and sparing in the way the acting and direction are stripped of glamor and spectacle, creating an air of verisimilitude that, combined with the black and white photography, at times makes it feel as if the viewer has simply been deposited into a tenement in the Bronx circa 1948.
The movie’s director, Martin Scorsese, initially wanted nothing to do with it. He found the story unremarkable and he didn’t like boxing, or indeed sports generally. The idea had been brought to him by Robert De Niro, who had read LaMotta ‘s autobiography. Somewhat reflective of the movie’s troubled gestation, De Niro didn’t actually much like the book or the way it was written, but found himself coming away from it with a borderline obsession with LaMotta and his life.
De Niro pressed the issue with his frequent collaborator; that he did so not only perpetuated the career of one of Hollywood’s greatest ever auteurs, it probably saved his life, because prior to yielding to the actor’s persistence, Scorsese was at his lowest ebb. Depressed by the muted commercial and critical response to his previous theatrical release, New York, New York, he buried himself in piles of cocaine, convinced his career was over. When he finally agreed to film Raging Bull, he threw himself into every last detail with gusto, expecting it to be his directorial swansong.
The first draft of the screenplay was summarily rejected. A second draft by Paul Schraeder, who scripted a previous Scorsese-De Niro collaboration, Taxi Driver, was closer to the mark, but it took intensive and uncredited rewrites from De Niro and Scorsese to create the finished product. Upon release, Raging Bull received mixed reviews and performed poorly at the box office, although it took little time for it to undergo a significant critical reassessment.
One wonders how Raging Bull might perform in 2024, when a generation of moviegoers has been conditioned to expect action sequences and uncomplicated heroes. There would be a place for it, surely: quality movie making continues to shine its light through the fog of Marvel franchises, after all. (The bigger obstacle, validly, would be the fact that the movie’s antihero hits women and goes to jail for enabling the prostitution of a minor; it would be a daring director, or one bent on career suicide, who attempted to extract pathos from a character with such traits today.)
In a way, Raging Bull feels very much a snapshot of its eras. Of the 1940s and 1950s, when it is set, when the only non-white characters are boxers and the only women are largely subservient and at risk of violence when independent or confrontational. But also of the 1970s and early 1980s, when directors like Scorsese, Coppola, and Cimino crafted masterpieces around examples of flawed masculinity, from Martin Sheen’s Captain Willard to Al Pacino’s Michael Corleone or De Niro’s own Mike Vronsky.
Raging Bull is a movie for people who like boxing, yes, but also for people who like movies, who admire the craft of understated storytelling and crisp acting. Joe Pesci, in only his second credited movie role, is magnetic as LaMotta’s brother Joey; and debutant Cathy Moriarty, a mere 19 years old, displays the husky world-weariness of a young Lauren Bacall in her Oscar-nominated turn as LaMotta’s second wife, Vikki. The movie’s fulcrum is, of course, De Niro, who won an Academy Award for his portrayal of LaMotta, perfecting his trademark conveyance of menace through subtlety and restraint. Today, an actor portraying LaMotta’s later life and associated middle age spread might rely on a combination of prostheses and CGI to convey his aging bulk; De Niro went to Paris for three months so he could eat an extra 60 pounds onto his frame the hard way.
Raging Bull received plaudits for its fight sequences, which by the standards of boxing movies convey at least an element of authenticity, even when clearly dramatized, such as the beautifully-composed sequences of LaMotta’s loss to Sugar Ray Robinson in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. But in a way, its spirit is perhaps best conveyed by its closing scene, in which LaMotta, now a stage performer, sits in his dressing room and works his way through Terry Malloy’s soliloquy from ‘On the Waterfront.’
On the one hand, LaMotta has lost it all: his career, his wealth, his wife, his brother, his boxer’s physique. He is performing on small stages for punters who laugh at him rather than with him. He is a subject of pity, if he even deserves that much. On the other hand, he refuses, as he did in the ring, to be knocked down, let alone knocked out. He continues to display the indomitable spirit that took him to the top before and, he hopes, will again. If ever a movie scene can be said to convey the ambiguity and misplaced optimism that courses through the sport and business of boxing, it’s that one.
Kieran Mulvaney has written, broadcast and podcasted about boxing for HBO, Showtime, ESPN and Reuters, among other outlets. He also writes regularly for National Geographic, has written several books on the Arctic and Antarctic, and is at his happiest hanging out with wild polar bears. His website is www.kieranmulvaney.com.
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