This is not a film without flaws. At certain points, I cringe at some of the implications, at the juxtaposition of images and thoughts. If this film were on a different topic, I would probably dislike it.
That withstanding, it is a film about something so rare and exquisite, so moving, so profound: a hero. Muhammad Ali is the only man I can think of in the 20th Century deserving of this title. Just to look at him is to feel awe. His beauty, his conviction, his strength, his piety, all bound together in a contradictory but exquisite whole. Ali is a Whittman poem of flesh and blood.
Shortcomings of this film aside, I can watch it again and again, and cry every time. And feel both shame and strength, and perhaps some hope, when confronted with Ali. If I ever have children, they will watch this film, if only because I can find nothing else that I can say stands for what I believe in.
That withstanding, it is a film about something so rare and exquisite, so moving, so profound: a hero. Muhammad Ali is the only man I can think of in the 20th Century deserving of this title. Just to look at him is to feel awe. His beauty, his conviction, his strength, his piety, all bound together in a contradictory but exquisite whole. Ali is a Whittman poem of flesh and blood.
Shortcomings of this film aside, I can watch it again and again, and cry every time. And feel both shame and strength, and perhaps some hope, when confronted with Ali. If I ever have children, they will watch this film, if only because I can find nothing else that I can say stands for what I believe in.