The respect with which Clint Eastwood and everyone else involved in the film shows for the subject the sport, the work, the people, the relationships and spaces between and around them is apparent, and seemingly total. You can’t fake sincerity in film, not for 135 minutes, anyway. It’s all about boxing every second, every frame. If anyone tells you that Million Dollar Baby “isn’t really about boxing,” they’re doing a disservice to the film and overlooking its central achievement.
Which is funny, because Million Dollar Baby is just the sort of film that we all want but no longer dare expect. Factor in an iconographic director, one whose star was chiseled into the pavement for much flimsier material, and it’s all too easy to take such a film for granted. There’s not that ambitious imbalance of filmmaking that’s flawed but promising for us to root for and help along, just a good film that does the work for itself. Whereas films that run well, sturdy and smooth from first to last, working quietly within their own dimensions, are harder for us to praise. We wind up expressing enthusiasm for films that exceed our low expectations and offer highest praise for films that succeed, spectacularly and surprisingly, in spite of their flaws.
Another way: enjoying/coping with all of this product necessitates a drop in our standards.
There are many, many films out there, and despite our usually justifiable complaints about monotonous mediocrity and vapidity, most films have something to offer, something to respect if not love, something for a craftsman or performer or producer to be proud of, something to fixate on and enjoy, even if, in relief, it’s at the expense of the film as a whole.