Invictus

Little over a year after Nelson Mandela lead the ANC party to power, the 1995 Rugby World Cup final will be remembered by sports fans as a day when the underdog triumphed in one of the sport’s greatest upsets. To the people of South Africa, however, victory over a much fancied New Zealand outfit bears much greater weight. It was a day in which the recently desegregated South African citizens came together in celebration: a day the nation’s recently elected president won over his adversaries and exorcised the demons of Right-wing regimentation in favour of a fledgling democracy that has since stood strong.

Donning a Springbok jersey (a then long standing symbol of Afrikaans supremacy that Mandela had fought to preserve) to present South African captain Francois Pienaar with the William Webb Ellis trophy, Mandela was hailed for reconciling race issues with a single gesture of gratitude and patriotism. Never in its 343-year history had the country rejoiced as one so profoundly. Momentous does not even begin to cover it.

Fifteen years and several governments on, the inevitable Hollywood re-envisioning hits the big screen with an acclaimed director and two A-listers at the helm. It’s a sure-fire recipe, but as self-inflated as Invictus is, it still fails to pump up the crowd.

Clint Eastwood’s film is based on the former British foreign correspondent John Carlin’s 2008 book, Playing the Enemy, which comprehensively details how Mandela orchestrated this seemingly chance exchange into an iconic moment in both sporting and political history. ‘Invictus’, as we are repeatedly reminded, is a short by British poet William Ernest Henley that Mandela kept with him on a scrap of paper during his 13-year incarceration on Robben Island. The poem pops up every now and then, with last lines, “I am the captain of my fate: I am the master of my soul” anchoring each redemptive juncture. Mandela even presents the poem to Pienaar just before the final; such is the power behind these words. Although in reality it was an extract from a Teddy Roosevelt speech. Hey-ho, here’s to narrative accuracy…

Over the years Eastwood has turn his liver-spotted hand to an array of tough, genuinely affecting social melodramas, but this time round it all feels a bit flatfooted. In fact, though it’s not an overly long film, it becomes hard not to succumb to fatigue from all the over implied sentimentality and twinkle eyed monologuing. The problem is, then, that if Invictus is effective, it’s only because it is so forcefully evocative. Actually it’s downright cheesy; with a grating soundtrack that juxtaposes tribal rhythms with bloated pop balladry. Feel that? That incessant twang? That’s Clint Eastwood, taking it to your heartstrings with the subtlety of a herd of stampeeding cape buffalo.

As a part-biopic Invictus is essentially a snapshot into the life of one of the twentieth century’s most influential humanitarian figures, although, for a role it seems he was destined to play, it’s not exactly a great exertion on Freeman’s part. Still, it’s a solid enough performance that, although resting on a few choice words of wisdom, is delivered assuredly from Freeman. So too does Damon deliver as the South African skipper with the weight of his sport and his world on his burly shoulders. Both embrace their respective roles with dignity and a refined poise, although neither are exactly pushed.

Overall Invictus is undone by its own overindulgence, turning a unifying moment of celebration and clarity into an underwhelming piece of cinematic cliché. A few shoulder-clashing match sequences are choreographed with exhilarating realism, but if this is the highlight of a film about a nation’s salvation at a time of political unrest, something has gone seriously awry.

Adam Woodward

Anticipation:

An on-song director takes on one of the most significant political episodes in the twentieth century.

Enjoyment:

Over-egged sentiment makes for underwhelming viewing.

In Retrospect:

Little more than a crowd-pleaser for flag wavers.