The Boys in the Boat

There’s a specific kind of quiet desperation that defined the American Pacific Northwest in the 1930s—a grey, rainy grit that makes the prospect of freezing water seem like a step up from the breadline. George Clooney’s The Boys in the Boat opens in this damp, hollowed-out world, focusing on Joe Rantz, a kid who isn't just "working class"—he’s "living in a car" class. I watched this film on a Tuesday evening while nursing a piece of sourdough toast that was arguably crunchier than the film’s dialogue, but the texture of the bread somehow matched the splintery, wooden reality of the University of Washington’s rowing docks.

In an era where our screens are usually clogged with multiversal clutter and CGI capes, there is something profoundly refreshing about a movie that is just about... a boat. And the guys in it. It’s an unapologetically old-fashioned piece of prestige filmmaking that feels like it was unearthed from a time capsule, despite being released into the hyper-cynical landscape of 2023.

The Gospel of the Swing

The film follows the true story of the University of Washington’s junior varsity rowing team, a group of working-class boys who somehow out-pulled the elite Ivy League programs to represent the United States at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. At the center is Callum Turner as Joe Rantz. Turner plays Joe with a guarded, stony silence that I found deeply moving. He’s a young man who has been abandoned so often that he treats hope like a dangerous luxury he can’t afford.

Opposite him is Joel Edgerton as Coach Al Ulbrickson. Edgerton is a specialist in "the internal growl," and here he delivers a performance of repressed anxiety. He doesn’t have a big "win one for the gipper" speech; instead, he communicates through slight nods and a perpetual look of someone who just smelled something burning. But the secret weapon of the cast is Peter Guinness as George Pocock, the legendary shell-builder. He provides the film’s soul, speaking about the wood of the boats and the "swing" of the team with a mystical reverence. The movie treats the sport of rowing with more biological and spiritual reverence than some religions treat their deities, and honestly, it sold me on it.

A Traditional Shape in a Digital Age

George Clooney has always been a director who looks backward with affection (Good Night, and Good Luck, The Tender Bar), and here he leans into a classical aesthetic. There are no shaky cams or rapid-fire edits. He and cinematographer Martin Ruhe let the camera glide alongside the shells, capturing the brutal, rhythmic synchronicity of eight men moving as a single organism.

For a contemporary audience, this might feel "slow," but I’d argue it’s actually "steady." In a post-pandemic cinema landscape where we’re often overwhelmed by "content," Clooney offers a "film." It doesn’t try to subvert the underdog trope; it leans into it with its whole chest. We know they’re going to get to Berlin. We know they’re going to face off against the Nazi-backed German team. We know the stakes. Yet, I still found myself tensing up during the final heat. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a warm bowl of oatmeal: nourishing, predictable, and desperately needing a sprinkle of salt, but it hits the spot on a cold day.

What makes this relevant now is its focus on the collective. We live in a moment of extreme individualism and digital isolation. Watching nine boys realize that they cannot win unless they completely surrender their egos to the person sitting in front of them feels like a quiet radical act. The film captures that "swing"—that moment where the boat feels like it’s flying—and it made me realize how much I miss stories about people actually building something together.

The Sweat Behind the Shell

One of the things I appreciated about the production is the commitment to the physical reality of the sport. Apparently, the actors had to undergo a grueling five-month rowing boot camp because Clooney insisted on minimal stunt doubles for the rowing sequences. You can see it in their frames; by the time they get to the Olympics, Callum Turner and the rest of the crew look legitimately exhausted. That’s not "acting" sweat; that’s "I’ve been on the Thames in the rain for six hours" sweat.

The film did face a bit of an uphill battle at the box office, tucked between holiday blockbusters and the usual franchise behemoths. It’s a "Dad Movie" in the best sense—the kind of film that emphasizes character, discipline, and historical weight. While it doesn't reinvent the wheel (or the oar), it executes its formula with a level of craft that I find increasingly rare in mid-budget studio dramas.

The Boys in the Boat doesn’t aim for the flashy complexity of a contemporary thriller or the genre-bending of an indie darling. It’s a sturdy, well-built vessel that stays exactly on course. While it might be a bit too safe for those seeking a gritty reimagining of the Great Depression, its sincerity is its strength. If you’re looking for a film that reminds you why we love a good triumph-of-the-underdog story, this one pulls its weight. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most revolutionary thing you can do is just keep rowing.