Now that Karyn Kusama’s much-heralded Girlfight has opened, I figure it’s time to catch up with the 1999 releases and review On the Ropes. And since I’ve been so slow to write about this documentary, which has long since vanished from theaters, the first thing to say is that you shouldn’t hesitate to watch it on video. That’s how On the Ropes was shot, by Nanette Burstein and Brett Morgen: with a handheld Sony, which the filmmakers carried through the streets and courtrooms of Brooklyn and into the New Bed-Stuy Gym, where a deeply impressive man named Harry Keitt was devoting himself to training amateur boxers.
The second thing you should know about On the Ropes is that these boxers were not living the easy life. One of them in particular, a young woman named Tyrene Manson, was destroyed right in front of Burstein and Morgen’s camera, not by a ring opponent but by the police and the court system. Since Manson is real–whereas the young Brooklyn boxer who is the heroine of Girlfight springs from Kusama’s imagination–let me explain the case in some detail.
Manson, a tough and wiry piece of work, was training at the time for the Golden Gloves, and going at it with extraordinary good cheer, considering her less-than-ideal circumstances. When not sparring or doing roadwork, she was busy caring for two young nieces, since her crackhead uncle couldn’t be bothered. Unfortunately, Manson had no place to live except in this same uncle’s house. Credible evidence suggested that she’d been trying to relocate herself and the girls; but there she was when the cops broke in. As expected, they found illegal drugs lying about, along with any number of Uncle Randy’s friends and colleagues. And so, on the grounds that she’d been breathing the same air as these people, Tyrene Manson was arrested for possession with intent to sell. A few shufflings of paper by a court-appointed lawyer, a grunt or two from the judge, and off she went to prison, on the very day she’d been scheduled to fight in the Golden Gloves. Watch On the Ropes and see it happen.
It’s certainly possible for fiction to convey the horror of such a situation–the messiness, the outrage, even the element of self-undoing. (Much to Manson’s detriment, the controlled aggression she used in the ring became flailing belligerence in court.) For an example, I turn to the opening chapters of Tolstoy’s Resurrection. But I don’t think of Girlfight, a well-acted and well-directed feature with a screenplay written on tissue paper. Dab your eyes with it, if you will; but blow your nose with caution.
The one substantial element of Girlfight is its lead actress, newcomer Michelle Rodriguez, who grabs your attention and holds it from the minute she comes onscreen. She’s first seen in an effective dolly shot, as she leans against a locker in a busy high school corridor. As the other kids go by, crossing left and right, the camera pulls closer and closer to the immobile Rodriguez, whose head is lowered but whose attitude is plain to read in the combat fatigues she’s wearing. At last, when she’s in close-up, she lifts her face and glares straight into the camera, her eyes steady and dangerous beneath the parapet of her brow. The expression is reminiscent of the young Muhammad Ali; and the framing of the shot, from chin to forehead, brings out the resemblance between one pretty, round-faced, pouty-lipped fighter and another.