The Fighter in 200 Words or Less

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For someone like me who couldn't possibly care less about the sport of boxing, The Fighter worked best when it couldn't either, which was usually. That's a roundhouse of a compliment but I do mean it positively - when you've got a band of such merry-making actors stuffed into such merry-making characters you'd rather watch them spar with words anyway.

Unless we're talking about Amy Adams in a porch-straddling girl-fight with a pack of hysterically over-peroxided hyenas - then the punch is welcome.

Or if we're talking about the swagger of Melissa Leo in slouchy leather heels lighting a mile-long Virginia Slim - then the punch is welcome.

Or if we're talking about Christina Bale grooving down the street with the ridiculous silly-string snap of a crack-addled Olive Oyl, then the punch is welcome.

All of them are welcome, even Mark Wahlberg's overwhelmed and sad-eyed (disguised as stupid-eyed, natch) straight-man. So yeah, there's probably one training montage too many - but would I give them up and lose the sight of Marky Mark jump-roping in sweatpants? I probably would not. It treads familiar floor-boards but it does so with terrific verve.
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