The Tragedy of Seabiscuit

The crowd-pleaser walks a fine, inescapable line between uplift and shameless maudlinism. Cynicism is pervasive, yet unapologetically sentimental films such as Rocky and Forrest Gump periodically magnetize the multitudes. The story of the underdog who defies the odds is as timeless as it is transparent. Rudimentary emotions, despite their apparent simplicity, can be ineffably potent.

Seabiscuit, based on Laura Hillenbrand’s beloved best seller and directed with steadfast earnestness by the yeoman-like Gary Ross, is heavy-handed and curiously unmoving. Elephantine dedication and meticulousness hardly guarantee the visceral investment that is so integral to inspirational films. Ross’s pursuit of superlative craftsmanship prevents him from forming a deep connection with the picture’s viewers. The Hot Button’s David Poland shares a similar opinion: “The story of Seabiscuit is a good one. The movie of Seabiscuit is a bad one. The trouble is the jockey. I don’t mean the scruffy librarian/boxer/jockey that has been made of Red Pollard. I’m speaking of Gary Ross, whose heavy hand constantly demands that we look at his film as an epic instead of as a simply great story.” Seabiscuit distinctly attempts to eschew superficiality but ends up drowning in it. For all its supposed quaint charm, the film is alarmingly hollow. The pretensions to greatness are evident the moment distinguished historian David McCullough’s extraneous, antiquated narration commences.

Seabiscuit, the diminutive, Depression-era horse, inspired a nation and drastically altered the lives of bereft, self-made millionaire and owner Charles Howard (Jeff Bridges), gloomy trainer Tom Smith (Chris Cooper), and the pugnacious, half-blind jockey Red Pollard (Tobey Maguire). This true story is meant to be emblematic of America’s recuperative powers and “never say die” attitude; however, the three central characterizations are so sketchy and flimsy that audience immersion in their plight and eventual redemption is an act of good will. Bridges, while clearly relishing his role, is reduced to playing a tiresome idealist inclined to giving hackneyed speeches. The death of his young son, a key event, is handled so expeditiously that it becomes trifling. Recent Oscar winner Cooper, portraying an aging cowboy during a period when cowboys were nearing extinction, gives a surprisingly perfunctory performance, although the part is admittedly anemic. Smith’s potential to be compellingly wistful is of no importance to Ross, whose obsession with surface gloss prohibits the creation of meaningful, engrossing characters. Maguire, at his best playing troubled youths in dark, incisive pictures like The Ice Storm and Wonder Boys, is unconvincing as Pollard.