Establishing the why behind any character is a complex task, and even more so when dealing in real life. John E. DuPont murdered Olympian Dave Schultz in cold blood. It’s a cruel fact, but the mysteries behind DuPont’s crime are intriguing, and certainly worthy of further examination. Foxcatcher, the new film from Bennett Miller (Capote, Moneyball), does its fair share or examination, but finite conclusions are left obscured in the ether.
The film is told through the lens of Mark Shultz (Dave’s younger brother) and John E. DuPont’s relationship. Insomuch, the film’s success lies with Steve Carrell and Channing Tatum. Tatum seems secure in Dave’s quiet rigidity. Ever the consummate fatherless child and inadequate brother, Tatum finds a way to tout insecurities diametric to his appearance. Brute, raw, uncomplicated, it’s a fine turn, but the Dave Schultz character never quite leaves behind something believably Channing Tatum.
On the other hand, Steve Carrell vanishes into the role of John DuPont. Absorbed into something far beyond prosthetic noses and discolored teeth, Carrell takes full advantage of his moment decoding this human cypher. Every aspect of his characterization aligns with some notion of DuPont I wasn’t aware I had. The manner of speaking, the demeanor, the terrible trainers, it felt authentic to the point where DuPont no longer belonged to himself, but instead was subject the whims of Steve Carrell. And Carrell, in his astounding performance, opted to remain unknowable.
Mark Ruffalo is our Dave Schultz, the casualty in this whole affair, but the film belongs to Tatum and Carrell. Ruffalo carries his bulky frame naturally and generates tremendous warmth when on screen. Accordingly, he sets up as a one-dimensional vessel of extreme likability undeservedly struck down. By all accounts this is true, but Foxcatcher employs him as little more than the collateral damage of Mark and John’s relationship.
The film makes no concerted effort to relay the details found in court documents. Stitched together narrative sketches, Foxcatcher relies heavily on atmosphere to spur the engine. Drained of color and limited on soundtrack, the film is somber, with a few whiffs of dull. Almost obsessed with restraint, even the electric moments—most notably the wrestling sequences—are kept on the leash. Miller keeps a steady hand on the till, visual tone intact, mood omnipresent, but a steady hand can quickly become heavy. At points over-directed, the amorphous story never quite sits at ease in the otherwise unyielding style.
DuPont wants to be more of a father figure than Mark requires. Mark is looking for a way out of poverty and Dave’s shadow and finds appeal in DuPont’s rigorous message of self-determination. Both men are in need of companionship. The line grows increasingly blurred between all of the above, but the film never reaches beyond implication. We see their shared wounds, their codependence, and a bizarre moment of usury to which Dave looks rather inured, but it all amounts to innuendo. Their relationship is never fully unpacked, and as such Foxcatcher remains at arm’s length.
The film should be seen for the performances alone, and Carrell’s name will undoubtedly bounce around the awards season echo chamber. A fascinating view into a murder too surreal for the tabloids, but too obscure to be dubbed a trial of the century, Foxcatcher is real life. A man died, a billionaire shielded by his wealth went to prison, and answers are hard to come by. An acute byproduct of trying to tell true stories.
—Monte Monreal
The film is told through the lens of Mark Shultz (Dave’s younger brother) and John E. DuPont’s relationship. Insomuch, the film’s success lies with Steve Carrell and Channing Tatum. Tatum seems secure in Dave’s quiet rigidity. Ever the consummate fatherless child and inadequate brother, Tatum finds a way to tout insecurities diametric to his appearance. Brute, raw, uncomplicated, it’s a fine turn, but the Dave Schultz character never quite leaves behind something believably Channing Tatum.
On the other hand, Steve Carrell vanishes into the role of John DuPont. Absorbed into something far beyond prosthetic noses and discolored teeth, Carrell takes full advantage of his moment decoding this human cypher. Every aspect of his characterization aligns with some notion of DuPont I wasn’t aware I had. The manner of speaking, the demeanor, the terrible trainers, it felt authentic to the point where DuPont no longer belonged to himself, but instead was subject the whims of Steve Carrell. And Carrell, in his astounding performance, opted to remain unknowable.
Mark Ruffalo is our Dave Schultz, the casualty in this whole affair, but the film belongs to Tatum and Carrell. Ruffalo carries his bulky frame naturally and generates tremendous warmth when on screen. Accordingly, he sets up as a one-dimensional vessel of extreme likability undeservedly struck down. By all accounts this is true, but Foxcatcher employs him as little more than the collateral damage of Mark and John’s relationship.
The film makes no concerted effort to relay the details found in court documents. Stitched together narrative sketches, Foxcatcher relies heavily on atmosphere to spur the engine. Drained of color and limited on soundtrack, the film is somber, with a few whiffs of dull. Almost obsessed with restraint, even the electric moments—most notably the wrestling sequences—are kept on the leash. Miller keeps a steady hand on the till, visual tone intact, mood omnipresent, but a steady hand can quickly become heavy. At points over-directed, the amorphous story never quite sits at ease in the otherwise unyielding style.
DuPont wants to be more of a father figure than Mark requires. Mark is looking for a way out of poverty and Dave’s shadow and finds appeal in DuPont’s rigorous message of self-determination. Both men are in need of companionship. The line grows increasingly blurred between all of the above, but the film never reaches beyond implication. We see their shared wounds, their codependence, and a bizarre moment of usury to which Dave looks rather inured, but it all amounts to innuendo. Their relationship is never fully unpacked, and as such Foxcatcher remains at arm’s length.
The film should be seen for the performances alone, and Carrell’s name will undoubtedly bounce around the awards season echo chamber. A fascinating view into a murder too surreal for the tabloids, but too obscure to be dubbed a trial of the century, Foxcatcher is real life. A man died, a billionaire shielded by his wealth went to prison, and answers are hard to come by. An acute byproduct of trying to tell true stories.
—Monte Monreal
RSS Feed
