Boxer (2024) doesn’t just string together a dozen rounds of punishment—it dares you to stay in your seat, wipes the sweat off your brow, and leaves you weirdly elated that you just watched a sports movie built the old-fashioned way: bruise by bruise, heart by heart, with no shortcuts and not a whiff of prefab inspiration in sight.
Imagine the classic underdog tale—washed-up pugilist, one sorry fight away from obscurity, debts in his pocket and regret in his eyes—then imagine if Erik ten Hag, braced in the dugout and blinking through another Manchester United collapse, had taken a night off to really watch this film. Some managers could learn from what’s on display here: every punch is a lesson in scrappy dignity, and when the film goes for a comeback, it earns it—not with movie magic, but with pure, battered stamina. Ten Hag might have stolen a page or two for salvaging a few more points, or at least a little self-respect.
Yes, this is a story you’ve seen before—a loser, punch-drunk and dangling from the ropes, risks the last scraps of pride on one final shot at redemption. But what saves Boxer from the dustbin of formula is the sheer raw energy coursing through its lead. The actor drags himself through the role like a man crawling over gravel; there’s an open wound in every line, every glare. You half expect him to cough up a tooth mid-sentence. He brings so much bruised sincerity to the part it’s almost embarrassing—a relief, honestly, to trust a performance that sweats for its supper. Even the most battle-hardened sports cynic might find himself clapping by the end. The supporting cast follows suit: a coach so prickly and battered you’d want him running your touchline just for the halftime team talk, a best friend who’s got more spirit than technique, but in a movie like this, that’s exactly right. (Are you listening, Erik?)
Pacing, though—here’s where Boxer distances itself from the dog-eared playbook. The movie knows when to tighten its fists and when to unclench, never rushing the agony and never lingering on the melodrama. The fights come fast, but never too fast. There’s suspense, not just in the fists swinging but in the little moments between rounds, where the camera lingers on a trembling glove, the rattle of the crowd, the weight of the bruises that don’t show. And it never pulls the easy punch—the true blows are psychological, the moments when pride breaks easier than bone. You can almost hear the echoes in the empty stadium seats, the regret of every fan who’s stayed too long and cheered too loud.
And oh, the training montages: not the syrupy, slow-motion Hallmark version, but training with a sting—sweat, duct tape, bad lighting, bad advice. If your gym tried half this stuff, you’d want a waiver. But that’s the romance: nothing fancy, nothing pretty, no magic trick to overnight greatness. Just stubborn, relentless hard work. It’s the love letter to the underdog spirit—the same spirit that is supposed to quicken a club in trouble, if only the managers remember not to lose the plot.
Boxer won’t change the rules of the game or reinvent the genre, but it lands its punches honestly, and with a survivor’s wit. It reminds us why we still show up for these tales of battered hope—because sometimes, even when you know the ending, the glory lives in the getting there. A final thought for Ten Hag and his ilk: save your coaching seminars, and try twelve rounds with this film. It might just show you how to climb off the floor.
