It’s been since 2001’s Training Day that Antoine Fuqua has delivered a true knockout. Southpaw is no exception. The Pittsburg-born director has faced no challenges scraping together talent; amassing casts and crews that regularly featured A-listers at the top of their game, screenwriters on the fast track to success, composers in highest demand. He also hasn’t been treated to a movie falling on the fresh side of the spectrum since 2001. Sure, The Equalizer eeked by on Denzel Washington’s cool, collected killing spree antics but critics (and audiences) knew that Fuqua’s product was less than perfect. And this gets us to Southpaw, a film that’s definitively less than perfect.

In theory, Southpaw should be excellent: Jake Gyllenhaal in the driver’s seat with Forest Whitaker and Rachel McAdams providing his thespian support structure; James Horner plowing out a should-be riveting score; a Kurt Sutter script of triumph, tragedy and, above all, boxing. But just as the film’s lead Billy Hope has it all, the mighty have that inimitable ability to fall the furthest.

No, Southpaw is no disaster. In fact, it’s excellent in spots. But holding out hope that it will be the socks-knocking, rock-em-sock-em sports drama that early expectations had us pining for will lead to smashing disappointment. Most notably from a narrative perspective.

Gyllenhaal plays Billy Hope, a prize fighter with everything a man could ask for. He’s got the trophy wife (McAdams), the loving daughter (Oona Laurence), an incorrigible entourage, a cash stack able to bank roll Rolex’s (everyone gets a Rolexxxxx!!!) and a dauntingly sized McMansion to boot. Professionally, he’s undefeated having gone 140something-and-0 against an army of would-be contenders. He’s truly a king in his castle. But around the corner lurks a beast by the name of entropy and in this case, chaos is a ladder Hope fails to climb.

As Sutter’ script succumbs to bathos of a limitless nature, Hope’s life becomes a snowball of abominable proportion. The way stuff be jettisoning itself from his life, you’d think he were a burning tower. It makes for a saga of overcoming odds but the fall from grace seems so over-the-top that you’ll crave for a story with a little more finesse. More butterfly, less beat down.

There’s a line in the sand emotionally that Southpaw manages to breach but once or twice – once during a gut-wrenching, pivotal scene involving Rachel McAdams and – as is customary with boxing dramas – again during the fliscalating dusklight that is the movie’s final, fisty tête-à-tête. Otherwise, the emotionality is kept low-broiling and predictable; with one informing the other in an Ouroboros of mediocrity and monotony. Thankfully, the cast is able to weave said mediocrity into magic, transforming Kurt Sutter’s blasé play-by-play into something potent and occasionally humming with life. And then there’s scenes (such as the one pictured below) that aim for below the belt.

Overall, the sentiment in Southpaw belongs squarely in a Peter Berg sporting endeavor; a glass-half-full-half-tainted phoenix from the ashes rehash we’ve seen recycled in the genre time and time again. Forest Whitaker’s Tick Wills might as well encourage, “Clear eyes, open hearts, can’t lose.” It’s ho-hum even in its grittiness; as see-through as the tracing paper used to make the script.

As a character, Hope is little more than a Mortal Kombat character supercharging as he collects hit points, melted down into a Grecian statue of tragedy circumstance. Even his super-cut body looks made of marble. But leave it to Gyllenhaal to elevate a one-dimensionally written character into someone who we’re willing to believe in and, dare I say, hold out hope for.

From a performance perspective though, it’s McAdams who steals the show. Though relegated to a somewhat limited role, she’s able to bring something new and unexpected to the table – setting the table for the film’s most dramatically successful moments. As Hope’s daughter, Laurence (who impressed majorly in this year’s adult drama Lamb) is asked to work with what feels like unfinished material, but excels with it nonetheless. I wish the same could be said for Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson who mugs his way through a performance that’s more candy shop than character.

From a bloody beat down perspective, the fight scenes shine. Fuqua allows the camera to drift outside of familiar tight close-ups, giving us a full body perspective that hews closely to what we’d expect watching a boxing match on HBO. The staging is seamless enough that you’ll forget that Gyllenhaal is not indeed a weathered prize fighter and props to Fuqua and his team for accomplishing that technical feat.

When push comes to shove, Southpaw rises to the occasion. And yet, it’s impossible to ignore the many times its back is against the narrative ropes, melodrama refusing to let up on the beatings. Boasting stellar performance from at least four actors, Fuqua’s film still manages to be a great example of commitment in front of the camera overshadowing the deficiencies behind it. Still yet, you can’t help but wish that their talent was used on a story with less bruising.

CONCLUSION: Though lacking on original dramatic upper cuts, Southpaw offers a bevy of excellent performances from its more than game cast. But with a share of technical errors behind the camera, Antoine Fuqua fails to offer a boxing drama that’s truly unique or special.