The first act here strikes an odd balance.
It portrays Lance Armstrong (Ben Foster)
as a sympathetic protagonist, forced into
doping because if he wanted to win, well then that was the only way. Everybody
else was doing it, so why shouldn’t he? Especially when he has had to fight off
cancer, a time in his life depicted as an awful battle in grim, shadowed hospital rooms.
Lance’s return sees him convinced that
doping is the only way, and he embraces the work of his Doctor Michele Ferarri
(Guillaume Canet) and is rewarded with seven consecutive tour de France victories.
He is friend to Presidents and celebrities,
adored for his charity which raises millions for cancer research, happily
married with children, and one of the greatest athletes on Earth.
Only David Walsh (Chris O’Dowd) is
disgusted. If everybody can see there is something wrong within cycling, then
everybody is happy to stay silent. But Walsh cannot. He rants and asks
questions, and it is then, when he is backed into a corner, that we see another
side of Lance. He bullies, threatens, sues. He uses cancer and his charity as a
shield. He gets away with it. Until he doesn’t anymore.
The procedural aspects of this story are
its most interesting element.
How Armstrong and his team doped, how he
escaped detection for so long. But director Frears and screenwriter John Hodge
want this to be something of a character study, and that is where the film
comes somewhat unstuck.
Armstrong loves winning, loves a battle.
But that doesn’t explain him, explain his controlling aggression, explain the
way he destroys those who oppose him. Ben Foster does his best, but when his
Armstrong looks into a mirror he seems like an empty puppet. These filmmakers
don’t understand this man. And that leaves the film curiously hollow.
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