“Just when you get rolling, your life makes a beeline for the drain.”
Stockton, California, 1972. A land of dreams, provided said dreams fit comfortably within a narrow paper sack. Those at work, those chosen few, barely surviving. The unluckier among them simply roaming the street, loitering with purpose until good luck taps them on the shoulder.
Only it never does. Or will. Stockton may as well be America itself in this hour of Nixon, as hope said its final goodbye somewhere around the entrance to the Stemmons Freeway.
Naturally, as our story begins, it features a man at rest. Clad in the shabbiest pair of underwear in many a moon, he is Tully. “The Pride of Stockton” in the amateur boxing world, only no one’s proud. Even fewer are paying attention. This is a life where a $100 purse is enough to get you by, even if your hospital bills will exceed that in spades. Never you mind. Tully is a believer. The very worst kind, in fact; the kind who inhabits the maxim “Beware the man who’s always telling you what he’s gonna do” like a second skin. Future tense because the past and present ain’t worth a damn.
And so begins Fat City, a late-career masterpiece for the legendary John Huston, who decided that he too wanted to throw a narrative-free mood piece to the cheap seats to gauge the reaction. Huston found his decade at last, that, despite the trappings of a rags-to-riches underdog tale, failed to give us anyone to give a damn about. At least if that’s your conventional expectation. Because care we do, if only due to our instinctive love of the loser’s tale. Yes, we’re here in the boxing milieu, but this is no Rocky: no title shots, no headlines, and even fewer reasons to wake up in the morning.
This is a world of flophouses, burnt dinners, cheap booze, and even cheaper women. Once such woman, Oma (Susan Tyrrell), is a character of such distinction, so fully realized, that she all but sets the standard for future floozies. She’s heartbreakingly awful, and no, there’s no heart of gold. She’s desperate, lonely, and always wrong for any man who catches her eye, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t fall instantly in love.
But while Tyrrell lords over the proceedings with a master class in method madness, Stacy Keach (as Tully), remains a close second, giving the performance of a lifetime inside a taut, ninety-six minutes. While I couldn’t find anything to confirm my suspicion, I’ll remain forever convinced that Keach rarely saw a sober minute on set, never more so than when sharing the screen with Tyrrell.
He is flabby, uncombed, and so delusional it’s a wonder he can justify the dawn. You see, he wants to see the ring once again, even though he has no more business fighting than shacking up with a near-comatose alcoholic. Still, he’ll indulge in both, showing the world that all of its assumptions about his character are painfully, obviously true. Can’t fight fate, especially when it’s your very DNA.
The final character of note in our story is the up-and-comer Ernie (Jeff Bridges), a lad of eighteen who is seen by Tully as the next big thing, only there’s nothing on display to warrant the praise. It’s enough that Ernie is here, and one suspects that Tully would have had similar optimism had anyone upright entered the gym that day. Tully just wants to believe, even if he’s among that ever-growing class of folks who use belief to ward off the desire to waltz into traffic.
Ernie is soon sent Ruben’s way, and as played by Nicholas Colasanto (Coach from Cheers), he’s the typically gruff hustler that all boxing men tend to become at some point, but it seems he’s learned to adapt to the absence of applause better than most. Still, here’s a new kid. Maybe this time. Maybe not.
If you’re looking for plot, or resolution, or the usual cliches that permeate the “sports film,” please look elsewhere. Huston hasn’t the time to celebrate a goddamn thing, and between the unwanted pregnancies, indifferent affairs, dirty linen, and thankless work in the onion fields to buy another day, it’s enough that these characters exist.
They’re not really living, and never will, which is exactly what can be said about the lion’s share of this country, then and now. We watch, we laugh, we recoil, and then we move on. Had the cameras come back a year later, Tully would still be in that filthy bar, promising the world to yet another broad on the brink. I’d say he’s forever punch drunk, but how would we ever know the difference?
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