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“My All American” earns most of its single shiny star by wasting no time in confirming its outright mushiness. Its first scene involves Aaron Eckhart, aged to a Clint Eastwood-like stoicism with the emphasis on white caterpillar eyebrows, answering a poor reporter’s simple question on who his favorite All-American was, with overstuffed straight through his decades of head coaching the University of Texas to bushels of football victories. “Freddie Steinmark,” he responds. “But he wasn’t All-American,” the reporter counters. “No,” Eckhart pauses, “He Was My All American.” This film is based on a true story After all.
For those who do not take that line drop as an exit cue, “My All American” shows viewers a shameless hero piece. The eponymous personal champ is Freddie Steinmark (Finn Wittrock), a prototypical high school football star in the 1960s who seems College Football is a stretch, but with Pro dreams, who knows?
As fate would have it, along with James (Juston Street) and his boyfriend on his side (his boyfriend is Sarah Bolger’s Linda), he successfully attends UTexas, where his impression of legendary Coach Royal (Aaron Eckhart) is astounding, and his height does not prove to be much of an issue. In contrast to all cliche coaches in this movie, Royal does not have tobacco-chewing guff, and furthermore, he simply adores Freddie, making the viewer feel that there are no obstacles for Freddie to overcome, and hence is the main reason he boosts his self esteem.
Writer and director Angelo Pizzo hints that people, especially those in fact like Freddie, who is a flawless perfectionist are unnatural to this world. In doing so, all sense of conflict is removed for 90 minutes, which gives calm to discomfort and truely highlights how great of a player Freddie was. Whenever Coach Royal, the statue, and his collar are constantly buttoned up to his chin, chooses to replace Freddie with boredom, Freddie gets relied upon to deliver hopeful handshakes, modestly surprised when his status within the team is increased. When a member of UTexas, he is the first booster in the locker room and the last booster at departure because he aims to constantly improve through studies. He never allows his shirt to come untucked while in school and prays during montages.
As expected, there is a tragic moment in “My All American” and it is preceded by what can best be described as a yawn-inducing montage of a few football games, a few highlights of Freddie Doing Good, and a relentless trumpeting of Aaron Copland-esque music playing in the background. It takes roughly 90 minutes for “My All American” to reveal itself for the over-glorified homage it has turned into for a college football program: that of UTexas turning into a powerhouse and beating a low record team in the 1969 Cotton Bowl, while Freddie fought an inner war off the field. Even then, Pizzo’s film strives for no rich emotional triumph and yet somehow wants to show Freddie receiving a standing ovation of five minutes. To his credit, Wittrock has a strange commitment to Pizzo’s outlandish vision and, for reasons I cannot fathom, goes along with the disgusting desire of the film to feel like the script was unearthed from a fifty-year-old time capsule that was somehow blemished with the grime of a public service announcement.
These young American men are so fragile that all they want is to battle over a pigskin and inevitably make mothers out of their girlfriends.
My All-American comes off as a hard-hitting, breathtaking drama during golden hour, but don’t be misled. At its heart, the film revolves around a man and his football team but delusionally romanticizes it like any Nicholas Sparks film. The heartwarming interactions between teammates, like “Little Dink” in the locker room, are equally cringy and the story is desperate to bring back a time that never truly existed the University of Texas should be ashamed. For those seeking basic quality sports films, “My All American” is totally pointless.
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