It may well be epistemic closure on my part

but I don’t care: I can’t fucking stand boxing movies.

A note: epistemic closure is smart-sounding flimflam for closed-mindedness.

A caveat: I love me some Rocky‘s, especially the last one, which had no business kicking as much ass as it did.

A qualifier: I take a certain amount of pride in the variety of my tastes. Amongst my favorite movies are The Empire Strikes Back, a piece of classic space opera, Amadeus, a three hour classical period piece, Speed Racer, a balls-to-the-wall action acid trip, and Y tu Mama Tambien, a fun and poignant coming of age Mexican film.

That’s a fairly eclectic cross-section, and I count as one of my strengths as a viewer/amateur (but very awesome) critic a sense of open-mindedness that allows me to fairly evaluate a film on its merits and precludes me from discriminating against it for its genre.

Except when it comes to boxing movies. Fuck boxing movies.

Watch this trailer for The Fighter. Observe how it includes every single hoary cliche in the whole damn book: the underdog battling for respect, the supportive, disgracefully regressive female love interest, the problematic, untalented brother, the generic, faux-inspirational music that climaxes just as each cast member’s name HITS THE SCREEN, the mortifying one-liner that serves as a convenient shorthand for me to use whenever I need to describe why this movie is so unwatchable for me: “I’m the one fighting! Nawt you, nawt you, and nawt you!”

I’m drunk and tired, this post is over. Fuck you, Marky Mark. Say hi to your mother for me.

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