Death Wins Big At Oscars
By Mike Bayham
March 2, 2005

Usually I have about as much interest in the Academy Awards as I do in the battle for the Canadian Football League's Grey Cup. This year was different, and not because of the notoriously potty-mouthed host's potential (and in some demographics, eagerly anticipated) dropping of the "F-bomb".

By happenstance, I had seen three of the five nominated movies, those being Ray, Million Dollar Baby, and The Aviator, and was grudgingly curious to learn which film would win the gold statue.

The two I thought merited the top honor were denied as the film that reigned supreme that evening was the one that in my humble opinion got a boost from its stealth socially liberal signals. I had correctly speculated the Oscar outcome immediately upon walking out of the theater that screened Million Dollar Baby, and my prediction had little to do with the movie's quality.

Clint Eastwood's mysteriously titled "triumph" had me wondering what the movie was about as the pre-Oscar buzz intensified. Before seeing a preview on Baby, I had assumed that it was about a kidnapping ransom. When I finally watched its teaser, I divined it was a take on women's boxing in the mold of 1977 Oscar winner Rocky. Upon watching the movie, I would learn its true story (cloaked in the previews) about halfway through the film.

Now at this point I should warn my readers that if you wish to view Million Dollar Baby without having the ending given away to peruse this column no further. But to those individuals sensitive to the sanctity of life, you might as well keep reading so I can save you 7 bucks and a feeling of disappointment.

The first part of Million Dollar Baby focuses on a scrappy woman boxer in training played by Hillary Swank. The now two-time Oscar winner and bete noire of Annette Benning's Academy ambitions does a marvelous job portraying a woman seeking to escape her "trailer trash" roots through boxing while sporting an irresistible smile.

The magnetism of her character is so great that it would be easier to cheer against US Steel than to not root for "Maggie Fitzgerald". Training the endearing pugilist is Morgan Freeman, who portrays a more polished version of the Burgess Meredith character from the Sly Stallone series and Maggie's Gaelic obsessed manager "Frankie", played by Eastwood.

Initially, Eastwood's character is reluctant to handle Maggie, one first infers because of misogynistic pride but later learns that it is rooted in some unexplained yet easily speculated transgression with his estranged daughter. In fact the one consistent element of the movie is Frankie's wrestling with an inner demon that compels him to attend Mass every day, to the consternation of his pastor who disproves of his mocking commentary after church.

After Frankie agrees to take the badgering Swank character under his wing, Maggie scores quick first-round knockouts that hark back to Mike Tyson's pre-facial tattoo and ear gnawing days. Unfortunately for Frankie's charge, the women's champion lands a sucker punch on Maggie that leads to a broken neck, which is where the film makes its unexpected transition from the boxing ring to the hospital room.

The remainder of the movie shows Maggie in a quasi-vegetated state needing the assistance of a tube connected to her throat to breathe. As bedsores ravage her body, Maggie pleads with Frankie to end her torment by "pulling the plug". After a grueling examination of his conscience, Eastwood, who reluctantly agreed to train the fighter, reluctantly accedes to her final request.

What I got from this movie was that emotionally charged arguments for stem-cell research and euthanasia were made through art and fantastic performances.

Had only more federal funding for stem-cell research been allowed, poor Maggie would have hope that her spinal injury would be magically cured giving her more incentive to cling on to her life.

Or that because of Maggie's plight, which the audience partially experiences through a series of mundane scenes, we should sanction the "right to die" and recognize what Eastwood's character did in the film was in essence no different than the service rendered by Jack Kevorkian to his patrons.

The only thing this movie was missing was a plea by Michael J. Fox and Ron Reagan, Jr. encouraging the audience to call their congressman about loosening the grip of "religious ignorance".

Maybe I am reading too much into the film, but if Democrats can raise holy hell about the superimposed "RATS" in a 2000 Bush ad, I think my conclusions are sound that Million Dollar Baby presents subtle messages on two controversial issues to unsuspecting moviegoers.

Perhaps I should take some solace in that Vera Drake, the film about a defiantly "heroic" English abortionist nominated in three categories, left empty-handed or that propagandist Michael Moore is not nearly as talented as Clint Eastwood.

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Mike Bayham is author of Right From The Bayou: The Opinions of a Conservative Cajun, which is available at iUniverse.com.

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Note -- The opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions, views, and/or philosophy of GOPUSA.