[EDITOR’S NOTE: In 2003, long before MovieManifesto.com existed, I spent my summer as a 20-year-old college kid writing as many movie reviews as I could. My goal was to compile them all into a website, possibly hosted by Tripod or Geocities, which would surely impress all of the women in my dorm. That never happened—neither the compiling nor the impressing—but the reviews still exist. So, now that I am a wildly successful critic actually have a website, I’ll be publishing those reviews on the respective date of each movie’s 20th anniversary. Against my better judgment, these pieces remain unedited from their original form. I apologize for the quality of the writing; I am less remorseful about the character of my 20-year-old opinions.]
There is an epic majesty about Seabiscuit, and I don’t just mean the horse. This is a throwback motion picture, one that is redolent of a distant era of cinema in which filmmakers suffused their creations with spirit and passion. It is by no means a flawless film – it is too long, too sentimental, and too reverential – but it carries itself with an elegant grace and nobility, and it has unanticipated moments of considerable power. For all its faults, Seabiscuit is a complete film, both uncommonly thoughtful and undeniably exhilarating, all the way to the finish line.
I must warn those with short attention spans, however: Patience is required. The first 45 minutes of Seabiscuit are little more than a severely protracted introduction, one in which writer-director Gary Ross ever-so gradually familiarizes us with his three major characters. They are spirited jockey Red Pollard (Tobey Maguire), tormented millionaire Charles Howard (Jeff Bridges), and reclusive horse-trainer Tom Smith (Chris Cooper), and Ross drifts in-and-out between them, ostensibly at random. Overlaying all this is a tedious voiceover by veteran narrator David McCullough.
It is in these initial passages that Seabiscuit is least sure of its footing. Ross is given the challenge of adapting Laura Hillenbrand’s tremendously popular book to the screen, and here he makes the grave mistake of duplicating her narrative structure. Thus we are forced to listen restlessly as McCullough prattles on ponderously not about the characters but the events of the nation, such as Ford’s invention of the Model-T and the devastation of the Great Depression. (I’ve never read Hillenbrand’s book, but it’s safe to presume these voiceovers are lifted verbatim from the source material.) It’s an admirable attempt to provide the film with a historical backdrop, but ultimately it serves only to distance us from the central events of the story.
Fortunately, however, that story eventually comes into focus. It begins with the affluent but distraught Howard who, after enduring unimaginable loss (Black Thursday, the death of his son, the desertion of his wife), journeys south and becomes reinvigorated after meeting Marcela (Elizabeth Banks, positively incandescent despite her meager role). Together, the pair develops an interest in horse-racing, and Howard inevitably enlists Smith as his trainer. Then comes the search for the proper steed, and Smith believes it to be the undersized, battered, disregarded stallion of the movie’s title.
Every horse needs a jockey, and there’s a brilliant moment in which Smith notices the similarities between the ornery Seabiscuit and the defiant Red Pollard. In addition to their feisty behavior, both are inappropriately sized, though in Pollard’s case, he is considered by most to be too tall and bulky to sit atop a horse, especially one as relatively fragile as Seabiscuit. Furthermore, Pollard’s track record is also unimpressive, but then this is undoubtedly a team of long shots, after all.
Till this point, Seabiscuit still feels a bit beleaguered, but that changes very quickly once Ross finally throws his four major players together. Part of this has to do with the ample number of race scenes, all of which are exceptional in their execution. Ross and his cinematographer, John Schwartzman, are able to accomplish the two vital goals of any sporting sequence: First, they consistently make the audience aware of the overall composition of the race, especially Seabiscuit’s relative position to both fellow racers and the finish line. Second, they immerse us directly in the heart of the action; we feel a hurtling energy as Pollard hunches forward, imploring his equine escort to hasten its pace. The races simply ooze atmosphere and credibility, and tribute goes not only to Tobey Maguire (more on him later) but also to Randy Newman for his rousing score. The scenes are challenging – the dual goals serve seemingly opposite ends, the first making us informed observers, the second dynamic participants – but Ross and his crew manage expertly. This is deft, thrilling filmmaking.
With such a triumphant troupe of heroes, Ross requires a particularly detestable villain, and he finds him in Samuel Riddle (Eddie Jones), owner of the mammoth Triple Crown-winner War Admiral. Jowls jiggling with menace, Riddle is pompous and prejudiced, and he arrogantly refuses to race the near-aristocratic War Admiral against people’s champion Seabiscuit. The second half of Seabiscuit, which involves Howard’s efforts to coerce Riddle into a match-race (in which Seabiscuit and War Admiral would be the lone contenders), as well as Pollard’s attempts to overcome a sudden setback, is nuanced, gripping, and suspenseful all the way to a euphoric finale.
With this as his second feature, Gary Ross now retains an impressive resume. In addition to penning the screenplay for the surprisingly witty Dave, his debut behind the camera was Pleasantville, a wry, intelligent picture in which two teens (Maguire and Reese Witherspoon, before they were Tobey Maguire and Reese Witherspoon) are yanked into the world of 1950s television. And while in both that and Seabiscuit he displays a vexing propensity to tug a tad too tightly on the viewers’ heartstrings, he nevertheless exhibits a keen imagination, as well as a passionate care for his work. His next film should be eagerly awaited.
But Seabiscuit is an actors’ movie, and Ross has supplied himself with an absurdly talented cast. Jeff Bridges and Chris Cooper are rock-solid in their respective parts, with Bridges in particular showing a resilient fortitude in addition to that patented likability he has so perfected. Most of the jewels, however, come from the supporting cast; along with Eddie Jones as the marvelously malevolent Riddle, there is professional jockey Gary Stevens (as Pollard’s friend and rival, George Woolf), who in his first role brings a quiet veteran-like poise along with his riding credentials. Also delightful is William H. Macy (also from Pleasantville) as Tick Tock McGlaughlin, an indefatigable radio commentator with a fabulous array of childish sound-effects gadgets; he plays his xylophone with the unmitigated verve of a toddler who has just discovered electric trains.
And then there is Tobey Maguire, who remains the best and most courageous actor of his generation. He could have mailed in this performance after the success of Spider-Man, but instead he completely reinvents himself, and that doesn’t just denote his auburn hair. After bulking up to play the comic-book hero, he dropped 25 pounds to play Red Pollard (a move which, in conjunction with a back injury, nearly got him booted from the Spider-Man sequel), and his technique is altered just as radically; a far cry from the mild-mannered Peter Parker, Pollard is a fiery personality with an obstinate attitude (though both characters possess a valiant heroism), and Maguire is again utterly convincing. Rarely is an actor so consistently excellent in such a wide range of roles, but Maguire is certainly a rarity.
It’s a bit of a shame, then, that Ross feels the need to split time almost equally between his leads – I’m inclined to believe a picture centered on Pollard and his champion stallion would have been more compelling. But the movie still has plenty of juice, and there’s that epic, nostalgic feel to be savored. Seabiscuit may be a slow starter out of the gate, but what a kick it has down the backstretch.
Jeremy Beck is the editor-in-chief of MovieManifesto. He watches more movies and television than he probably should.