The Knockout – A Round in My Own Living Room

So, The Knockout, huh? Yeah, I dragged myself to the cinema on a rainy Thursday back in March (typiskt Göteborgsväder, honestly), fumbled with my kexchoklad, and—in the end—stumbled out with more questions than answers. But let’s start with the obvious. Everyone in Sweden’s talking about how Christian Bale is absolutely bananas as the battered ex-champ, and yeah, he’s chewing the scenery like en hungrig vätte at julbordet. And don’t get me started on Florence Pugh, who’s so sharp she could cut smör with her gaze, bringing this melting honesty even to the clunkiest scenes.

Gotta say, the director, Patricia Jenkins, who gave us some great chills in “Monster,” really leans into those bruised knuckles and shaky close-ups. Could almost smell the sweat and stale popcorn in those locker rooms. But gee, there’s something weighty here that sometimes gets a bit lost, like an old rye crisp in your IKEA sofa. There’s talk about perseverance and all that, but it gets a bit melodramatic, right? I mean, there’s only so many slo-mo punch montages one man can take. Or maybe that’s just me, trött after a long workweek.

It all reminded me of when grannen Sven tried to start a boxning club in our kvarter in ’98. We were ten folks, two pairs of gloves, and a cassette tape blasting Roxette. Chaos. Maybe that’s why these underdog stories hit me—nobody gets out unscathed, not even the audience.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s heart here. There’s grit. But sometimes, I got the feeling that the script (thanks, Lars Norén would’ve punched it up quite a bit) was more shadowboxing than throwing real punches. Still, if you want to feel the sting, hear the thudding soundtrack, and maybe laugh at some awkward dialogue, then grab a cinnamon bun and give it a go. Might not be a knockout, but at least you won’t fall asleep.

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