He had to look good on a horse so he could make Westerns, be convincing in uniform for his combat films, be sexy in romances and romantic comedies and look like he can take a punch for his boxing picture.
Jake Gyllenhaal is ripped and ready for the body blows in “Southpaw,” a gritty but draggy ripoff of “The Champ” scripted by “Sons of Anarchy” creator Kurt Sutter and bathed in blood and sweat by Antoine “Training Day” Fuqua.
Gyllenhaal is Billy Hope, a mumbling stammering Hell’s Kitchen orphan who has fought his way to the top of his weight division. His fellow ophran/child of the streets Mo (Rachel McAdams) has been there, every step of the way, the wife always in his corner.
“Don’t get hit too much!”
Billy’s main weapons are his rage and his ability to take a punch. He trash talks his foes, even as his face is awash in blood.
But that temper is what sets off an out-of-ring melee with a challenger (Miguel Gomez), and that leads to a shooting and Mo is killed. It’s a wrenching death scene that both Gyllenhaal and McAdams play the hell out of. Enjoy it. The cops have so little interest in this very public murder that they basically drop the matter, as does the movie.
Billy’s life and career go into a death spiral, despite the fact that he’s rich and he has an adorable daughter (Oona Lawrence) who needs him don’t matter. His manager (Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson) is no help. His “boys” are pushed aside. One disastrous fight later, and Billy loses the kid, the house, the Bentley and Ferrari, everything.
He turns to blind-in-one-eye trainer Tic (Forest Whitaker) to pull him out of it.
The story arc is entirely too familiar to sustain the two-hours-plus length, the violence, gore and language are the only elements that lift it from the weepy melodrama that “Southpaw” wants to be into “Raging Bull” territory. Fuqua gives us a gloves-eye-view of the fighting sequences, which are more believable than your standard issue “Rocky,” but still strain credulity.
Since we’re already straining to see Gyllenhaal as an inarticulate dead ender and the dearly departed McAdams as anything but a prep school product, that’s a distraction the film doesn’t need.

But Gyllenhaal, covered in blood and tattoos (“Fear No Man” on his back, his daughter’s name and birthday in Roman numerals on his chest) puts the work in and makes us believe, as he always does.
Young Miss Lawrence tugs at the heartstrings, Whitaker gives fair, gruff value and Naomie Harris makes the most of a thankless social worker role that’s frankly beneath her.
The dialogue — that which we can make out — doesn’t reinvent the movies. Gyllenhaal mumbles, Whitaker slurs and 50 Cent, dolled up as a dapper fight promoter, does the same (he’s always been mumbly) and you realize that maybe this one would be better on home video — with the subtitling on.

MPAA Rating: R for language throughout, and some violence
Cast: Jake Gyllenhaal, Forest Whitaker, Rachel McAdams, Oona Lawrence, 50 Cent
Credits: Directed by Antoine Fuqua, written by Kurt Sutter. A Weinstein Co. release.
Running time: 2:03