Deconstructing a myth in the opening sequence of Michael Mann's Ali
Approximately six minutes into Ali (USA, dir: Michael Mann, 2001) Ali’s (Will Smith) coach (Ron Silver) says to him ‘Never jump in one place … forwards, backwards, sideways — that’s the most important thing.’ This phrase is emblematic of the film’s entire opening sequence as it never settles in one singular space or time period. Using a montage of kaleidoscopic images, the sequence constantly jumps into different time periods and spaces, making it feel more like an impressionistic experiment than a straightforward opening. This sequence — which I am classifying as starting with Ali jogging and ending with him walking into the fight’s weigh-in — acts as a prologue before his legendary fight with Sonny Liston (Michael Bentt), where he won the Heavyweight champion title. Within this opening sequence Mann establishes Ali’s history and gives the viewer all the information they need to continue watching the life of its titular figure unfold. Even though the fight is never explicitly mentioned (one could argue due to its importance, it would be unnecessary to do so) the narrative of Ali training for his fight is incredibly simple. However, little of the sequence is focused on straightforward narrative; dedicating most of its run time to non-diegetic plot elements that, despite not moving the story along, are used to develop the character of Ali and allow the viewer to get inside his head. Mann introduces multiple temporal planes into the film’s opening sequence, remaining in constant flux, helping to vastly expand the scope of the sequence. These three planes are: the modern day (24 February 1964) which sees Ali training on the day of his fight, a series of flashbacks that peer into Ali’s past, and lastly there is a replication of a Sam Cooke performance which is never given a specific period.
In this analysis I will explore deeper meanings between the juxtaposition of the images in the sequence; specifically, the contrasting images of Cooke and Ali. Alongside this I will explore how Mann uses these flashback sequences to explore Ali’s youth and construct a true reflection of Ali, as a political and revolutionary figure in American history insomuch as he was a boxer. Looking at how Mann avoids using nostalgia or sentimentality and how it explores the concept of Ali’s mythology. This sequence is a crucial part of the film as it establishes Ali’s history and the socio-political events, namely growing up in Jim Crow-era America, which shaped him hitherto to claiming the heavyweight title — for which he became world famous for. Throughout the sequence, 125 different shots are used over nine minutes, making the average shot length around four seconds long. These individual shots are frequently used in repetition with the sequence creating loops that often always return to a single image, usually a close-up. As Jonathan Rayner says, ‘within this sequence, intercutting balances without privileging any individual element.’[2] A lack of privilege gives each shot its own independence. However, this causes these individual elements to have insignificant meaning when taken in singularity; but when taking in accumulation they construct vast emotional and intellectual depth.
With this sequence Mann creates a type of cinema that is defined by the close-up. Rarely does he use long shots to establish the landscape or setting we are being placed in; instead, his mise-en-scene is heavily focused on capturing individuals in a highly detailed, expressive way. A lack of establishing shots and jumping straight into close-ups provides a dizzying experience, which aims to disorientate the viewer. A majority of the 125 shots in this sequence — 76 to be precise — are close ups (from medium to extreme) that are mostly focused on capturing the face. Film theorist Bela Balasz spoke of the close-up acting as a magnifying class which ‘brings us closer to the individual cells of life, it allows us to feel the texture and substance of life in its concrete detail.’[3] These highly textured close-ups show us the sweat on Ali’s face symbolising the physical strain of training; the dour aesthetics and gradually moving close up of Malcolm X delivering a powerful speech concerning black radicalism; or Ali and his crew in the car journey to the fight, with each one glancing at Ali with a sense of pride that feels tangible.
Due to Ali’s lack of dialogue in this sequence these facial expressions are used to convey his inner thoughts. This emphasis on the face is comparable to something like The Passion of Joan of Arc (France, Dir: Carl Dreyer, 1928)[4], with Joan of Arc and Ali both being two colossal cultural figures where the intersections between religion and politics defined a large part of their lives. Balasz also wrote about the replacement of words with expressions, talking about how they could be vastly more powerful than speech, ‘a face can display the most varied emotions simultaneously, like a chord, and the relationships between these different emotions is what creates the rich amalgam of harmonies and modulations. These are the chords of feeling whose essence is in fact their simultaneity. Such simultaneity cannot be expressed in words.’[5] This simultaneity can be directly seen with Smith’s expressive portrayal of Ali, with his emotional responses incredibly varied and with such brevity, it is hard to imagine what words could replace them. Reducing him to a spectator highlights a lack of control he has had thus far in his life, at the end of the sequence when he audaciously taunts Liston, we are seeing him take control of his destiny through his use of voice.
Alongside the image, sound is an integral part of this sequence; with the music of Sam Cooke — be it through jazzy instrumentals or his soulful voice — remaining constant throughout the whole sequence; although other elements such as sounds of training and snippets of dialogue can still be heard. Through the music we can break the sequence down into three independent sections that each have an individual focus and a distinctive soundscape. Firstly, there is an intro section which features Cooke greeting the audience, both the film’s spectators and the audience residing in the film, by saying ‘How are you doing out there?’ Proceeding to then play a shortened rendition of ‘(Don’t Fight It) Feel It;’ an upbeat song which rhythmically fits into the editing of the image, with the fast-paced grooves matching the quick cuts. Ali is also hassled by a police car, who proceeds to shout, ‘What you running from son?’, which both highlight that the racism endured in these upcoming flashbacks still permeates in Ali’s life, but also a genuine statement that reflects Ali’s mental state as he prepares to fight Liston.
Despite being a biographical film about Ali, the first twenty-four shots of Ali alternate between images of Ali training and Cooke (David Elliot) performing on stage in front of an ecstatic audience. At first it seems strange that instead of just playing Cooke songs over the film’s images — in the form of a non-diegetic soundtrack — Mann recreates a live concert to intercut between the scenes of Ali, using an actor to create a simulacrum that offers a slight variation of the sound traditionally used to. The immediate response to this is that it helps contextualise the film and ground it in its time period (the early 1960s) giving an insight to not just one but two prominent cultural figures and civil rights icons of the times. However, deeper meaning can be found from these images that feel unrelated to one another. Soviet Union film theorist Sergei Eisenstein defined a montage as ‘an idea that derives from the collision between two shots that are independent of one another,’[6] meaning that a juxtaposition of shots that are unrelated could provide a wealth of other readings. We can apply this theory to the contrasting shots of Cooke and Ali, to look beyond mere reasoning of contextuality. Most noticeable is the contrasting mise-en-scene that appears between the two.
In this analysis I will explore deeper meanings between the juxtaposition of the images in the sequence; specifically, the contrasting images of Cooke and Ali. Alongside this I will explore how Mann uses these flashback sequences to explore Ali’s youth and construct a true reflection of Ali, as a political and revolutionary figure in American history insomuch as he was a boxer. Looking at how Mann avoids using nostalgia or sentimentality and how it explores the concept of Ali’s mythology. This sequence is a crucial part of the film as it establishes Ali’s history and the socio-political events, namely growing up in Jim Crow-era America, which shaped him hitherto to claiming the heavyweight title — for which he became world famous for. Throughout the sequence, 125 different shots are used over nine minutes, making the average shot length around four seconds long. These individual shots are frequently used in repetition with the sequence creating loops that often always return to a single image, usually a close-up. As Jonathan Rayner says, ‘within this sequence, intercutting balances without privileging any individual element.’[2] A lack of privilege gives each shot its own independence. However, this causes these individual elements to have insignificant meaning when taken in singularity; but when taking in accumulation they construct vast emotional and intellectual depth.
With this sequence Mann creates a type of cinema that is defined by the close-up. Rarely does he use long shots to establish the landscape or setting we are being placed in; instead, his mise-en-scene is heavily focused on capturing individuals in a highly detailed, expressive way. A lack of establishing shots and jumping straight into close-ups provides a dizzying experience, which aims to disorientate the viewer. A majority of the 125 shots in this sequence — 76 to be precise — are close ups (from medium to extreme) that are mostly focused on capturing the face. Film theorist Bela Balasz spoke of the close-up acting as a magnifying class which ‘brings us closer to the individual cells of life, it allows us to feel the texture and substance of life in its concrete detail.’[3] These highly textured close-ups show us the sweat on Ali’s face symbolising the physical strain of training; the dour aesthetics and gradually moving close up of Malcolm X delivering a powerful speech concerning black radicalism; or Ali and his crew in the car journey to the fight, with each one glancing at Ali with a sense of pride that feels tangible.
Alongside the image, sound is an integral part of this sequence; with the music of Sam Cooke — be it through jazzy instrumentals or his soulful voice — remaining constant throughout the whole sequence; although other elements such as sounds of training and snippets of dialogue can still be heard. Through the music we can break the sequence down into three independent sections that each have an individual focus and a distinctive soundscape. Firstly, there is an intro section which features Cooke greeting the audience, both the film’s spectators and the audience residing in the film, by saying ‘How are you doing out there?’ Proceeding to then play a shortened rendition of ‘(Don’t Fight It) Feel It;’ an upbeat song which rhythmically fits into the editing of the image, with the fast-paced grooves matching the quick cuts. Ali is also hassled by a police car, who proceeds to shout, ‘What you running from son?’, which both highlight that the racism endured in these upcoming flashbacks still permeates in Ali’s life, but also a genuine statement that reflects Ali’s mental state as he prepares to fight Liston.
The middle section is scored by a much more fragmented piece of music, one that contains droning jazz chords and Cooke doing more a loose and improvised style of singing. This fracturing of the music reflects the dismantling of the traditional narrative depicted on screen by the images. Finally, the last portion of the sequence features the soaring anthem of ‘Bring It on Home to Me’ and focuses entirely on Ali preparing and making his way to the legendary fight. Through the song’s lyrics it feels as if Cooke is directly speaking to Ali, and the ‘It’ in this instance is the title of Heavyweight champion. Many viewers will already know that Ali will win, and it is through this concept of knowing how the story goes that aids the sequence’s emotional weight. After showing as a showreel of images that highlight Ali’s suffering (be it through racial injustice, police harassment or psychologically strenuous training) we are given images — and sound — that feels profoundly triumphant, drawing out a deep emotional response without having divulged in sentimentality.
Despite being a biographical film about Ali, the first twenty-four shots of Ali alternate between images of Ali training and Cooke (David Elliot) performing on stage in front of an ecstatic audience. At first it seems strange that instead of just playing Cooke songs over the film’s images — in the form of a non-diegetic soundtrack — Mann recreates a live concert to intercut between the scenes of Ali, using an actor to create a simulacrum that offers a slight variation of the sound traditionally used to. The immediate response to this is that it helps contextualise the film and ground it in its time period (the early 1960s) giving an insight to not just one but two prominent cultural figures and civil rights icons of the times. However, deeper meaning can be found from these images that feel unrelated to one another. Soviet Union film theorist Sergei Eisenstein defined a montage as ‘an idea that derives from the collision between two shots that are independent of one another,’[6] meaning that a juxtaposition of shots that are unrelated could provide a wealth of other readings. We can apply this theory to the contrasting shots of Cooke and Ali, to look beyond mere reasoning of contextuality. Most noticeable is the contrasting mise-en-scene that appears between the two.
Cooke performs on a brightly lit stage delivering a performance in front of an ecstatic audience, whereas Ali trains in darker, more isolated locations whether that be a Sporadically-populated gym or Jogging alone. Mann often uses wider shots to capture Cooke sharing the frame with his audience, whereas Ali is frequently framed by himself, in the centre of the screen. Another frame shows a screaming woman reaching out and grabs Cooke’s hand which is followed by a shot of Ali training. A comparison can then be made with regards to the stature of both characters through these images. Cooke’s large audiences solidifies him as a pop icon, whose cultural popularity was never higher in the early 1960s; whereas Ali at this period was an underdog, expected to be destroyed by Liston, with his fame still yet to grace him. Through placing these shots in succession, it highlights Mann’s use of Cooke ‘as an abstraction of the fame that will soon grace the young Cassius Clay.’[7] The artificiality of these scenes — which feels as if it is happening in a vacuum, with no attachment to reality — feels ethereal and lays over the entire sequence as a spectre. Mann also uses this montage to explore the dichotomy between the femininity of being a pop singer vs the masculinity of being a professional boxer. Masculinity is a theme that plays a significant role in Mann’s oeuvre; his characters being highlighted by Rayner as constantly aspiring towards and failing to achieve their goals in terms of increasingly demanding definitions of masculinity.[8]
The montage of Ali continues through its use of flashbacks which happen in rapid succession. Early in the sequence the film goes into slow motion as Ali hits a punching bag, the slowing of time acting as an indicator to the change in temporality about to take place. Then abruptly jumping to a POV shot which positions us directly in front of Sonny Liston as he punches towards the camera, as if he is punching the viewer back in time. Straight after that we are introduced to one of the reoccurring shots which is an extreme close-up of Ali’s face as he continually punches a bag in an extremely fast motion. This shot acts as an establishing shot and is routinely featured between each flashback sequence, which grounds these memories as subjective recollections[9]. Following on, we have a flashback of Ali watching his father paint a white Jesus in an African American church. We then jump to Ali being led down a segregated bus by his mother, where he sees a newspaper headline reading ‘Nation shocked at lynching of Chicago youth’ making a direct reference to the harrowing murder of Emmet Till in 1955. Within a brief period, his expression moves from bewildered intrigue at his fathers painting to abject horror from seeing the newspaper. These shifting expressions emphasise a sense of a lost innocence which comes from grappling with the injustices and horrors of racial inequality.
The montage of Ali continues through its use of flashbacks which happen in rapid succession. Early in the sequence the film goes into slow motion as Ali hits a punching bag, the slowing of time acting as an indicator to the change in temporality about to take place. Then abruptly jumping to a POV shot which positions us directly in front of Sonny Liston as he punches towards the camera, as if he is punching the viewer back in time. Straight after that we are introduced to one of the reoccurring shots which is an extreme close-up of Ali’s face as he continually punches a bag in an extremely fast motion. This shot acts as an establishing shot and is routinely featured between each flashback sequence, which grounds these memories as subjective recollections[9]. Following on, we have a flashback of Ali watching his father paint a white Jesus in an African American church. We then jump to Ali being led down a segregated bus by his mother, where he sees a newspaper headline reading ‘Nation shocked at lynching of Chicago youth’ making a direct reference to the harrowing murder of Emmet Till in 1955. Within a brief period, his expression moves from bewildered intrigue at his fathers painting to abject horror from seeing the newspaper. These shifting expressions emphasise a sense of a lost innocence which comes from grappling with the injustices and horrors of racial inequality.
A flashback of Malcolm X giving a speech appears next which aims to reconcile with the prior two scenes. It takes five shots before the camera acknowledges Ali’s presence at the speech, he is stood by himself at the back of the room, further highlighting his isolation. Framing Ali and Malcolm X individually in a series of shots gives the impression they are communicating directly, and that the entire crowd has disappeared, highlighting Malcolm X’s influence over Ali’s religious and political beliefs. During the final flashback — the first meeting between Ali and his future trainer Bundini Brown (Jamie Foxx) — the sound of Ali exercising remains audible, as does the impassioned voice of Cooke. All three temporal spaces become aligned by sound, indicating a unifying moment which enables us to leave behind these flashbacks. Steven Rybin highlights this seamless transition between images in the flashback section is ‘to suggest that the past is always part of the present experience for Ali.’[10] This notion is most obvious through the fact that these glimpses into the past maintain the same aesthetics as the modern-day scenes — dark lighting, naturalistic colours, and an emphasis on facial expressions — containing no surrealistic or dream-like qualities. This highlights that these scenes are not fantastical, they are genuine memories coming from the same reality that we are seeing in the present.
Mann’s use of flashbacks helps to break down the mythology of Ali, a concept which is unavoidable when talking about cultural icons; especially with any cinematic texts that aim to recreate these icons through drama. Each celebrity — be it singer, athlete, or politician — has their own myths, which dominate the cultural zeitgeist. A myth is defined by French theorist Roland Barthes as something that is ‘made of a material which has already been worked on so as to make it suitable for communication: it is because all the materials of myth (whether pictorial or written) presuppose a signifying consciousness, that one can reason about them while discounting their substance.’[11] He states here that a myth is a text that is commonly perceived as being truthful, however, it has been tampered with so that the message the myth conveys is suitable for consumption. It would be easy for Mann to help contribute to the myth of Ali in this opening sequence by showing a simple narrative of him training for his fight, defining him as hardworking and valiant, yet flattening him as a symbol for masculine determinism and physical strength.
Through this nine minute sequence alone, Mann has used an experimental style of filmmaking to create a radically different introduction than what is found in traditional Hollywood biographical films. Using a style that feels uniquely cinematic it lays the groundwork for the rest of the film’s formalistic tendencies. Mann also presents the philosophical themes of the whole film within this sequence, which is Ali’s lifelong struggle for personal, racial, and religious freedom. Concepts of self-determination, isolation and identity — all of which are established within these opening frames — connect him to the characters of Mann’s entire oeuvre; which has been defined as a group of ‘damaged men who dedicate themselves all-consumingly to their work, chasing an exalted state where extreme capability becomes its own goal’.[14] This analysis has looked at how, in a brief timespan, Mann can weave together a myriad of different flashbacks to create a tableau that feels opaque when looked at from a distance; but when examined closely is rich with details and texture. When Ali storms through those double doors to face Liston, he arrives as a fully formed individual; a person who, despite not having yet conquered their destiny, has begun that journey. This sequence is a remarkable introduction to the real Ali, with the sequence’s impressionistic style withering away any traditional myth making and instead offering a true glimpse into the mindset of one of America’s most influential and iconic stars.
[2] Jonathan Rayner, The Cinema of Michael Mann, (New York, Wallflower Press, 2013), 142
[3] Bela Balasz, Early Film Theory tran. Rodney Livingstone, (New York, Berghahn Books, 2010), 38
[4] Michael Mann placed The Passion of the Joan of Arc on his 2012 Sight and Sound poll, hence my reasoning for drawing direct comparison to it.
[5] Bela Balasz, Early Film Theory, 34
[6] Sergei Eisenstein, Film Form Essays in Film Theory, trans. Jay Leyda (New York, Harvest/HBJ, 1949), 49
[7] Steven Rybin, Michael Man: Crime Auteur, (New York, Scarecrow Press, 2013), 172
[8] Jonathan Rayner, The Cinema of Michael Mann, 8
[9] Ibid., 141
[10] Steven Rybin, Michael Mann: Crime Auteur, 173
[11] Roland Barthes, Mythologies, trans. Annette Lavers (New York, Noonday Press, 1972), 108
[12] Ibid., 120
[13] Steven Rybin, Michael Mann: Crime Auteur, 171
[14] Jonah Weiner, Michael Mann’s Damaged Men, New York Times, July 20, 2022, https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/20/magazine/michael-mann-ferrari-heat-2.html
Mann’s use of flashbacks helps to break down the mythology of Ali, a concept which is unavoidable when talking about cultural icons; especially with any cinematic texts that aim to recreate these icons through drama. Each celebrity — be it singer, athlete, or politician — has their own myths, which dominate the cultural zeitgeist. A myth is defined by French theorist Roland Barthes as something that is ‘made of a material which has already been worked on so as to make it suitable for communication: it is because all the materials of myth (whether pictorial or written) presuppose a signifying consciousness, that one can reason about them while discounting their substance.’[11] He states here that a myth is a text that is commonly perceived as being truthful, however, it has been tampered with so that the message the myth conveys is suitable for consumption. It would be easy for Mann to help contribute to the myth of Ali in this opening sequence by showing a simple narrative of him training for his fight, defining him as hardworking and valiant, yet flattening him as a symbol for masculine determinism and physical strength.
Barthes goes on to describes a myth as something where its ‘function is to distort, not to make disappear.’[12] The distortion in this instance would be the depoliticisation of AIi’s history or denying the struggle that he went through as a child, and a young adult. Revealing Ali’s past, and weaving it through montage with the present, demystifies Ali as it shows the audience these are his true recollections. Memories that are important and need to be known in order to get a true representation of Ali’s beliefs and humanity. This demystification is a political act which aims to restore him as a symbol for racial justice and revolutionary ideas, showcasing how things like the ideology of Malcolm X or his interactions with the police have led to this formation. Mann’s combination of aesthetics and sound design throughout this sequence refuses an indulgence in a reverence for the past and generally avoids pseudo-documentary techniques[13]. Using David Elliot to sing the Cooke songs over the sequence helps break away from the past and grounds the film in the present, also signifying the relevance of the story even if it happened forty years ago. The uncanny nature of hearing the songs played slightly differently presents a sense of unfamiliarity to the sequence. Expanding on this feeling is both Mann’s aesthetic style — relying on jump cuts and intense close-ups — and his use of an unconventional narrative structure, which has a distinct lack of exposition. Mann’s opening to the film is unorthodox and because of this, the viewer is unable to settle on remembering the past but are rather confronted with its ugly truths.
[2] Jonathan Rayner, The Cinema of Michael Mann, (New York, Wallflower Press, 2013), 142
[3] Bela Balasz, Early Film Theory tran. Rodney Livingstone, (New York, Berghahn Books, 2010), 38
[4] Michael Mann placed The Passion of the Joan of Arc on his 2012 Sight and Sound poll, hence my reasoning for drawing direct comparison to it.
[5] Bela Balasz, Early Film Theory, 34
[6] Sergei Eisenstein, Film Form Essays in Film Theory, trans. Jay Leyda (New York, Harvest/HBJ, 1949), 49
[7] Steven Rybin, Michael Man: Crime Auteur, (New York, Scarecrow Press, 2013), 172
[8] Jonathan Rayner, The Cinema of Michael Mann, 8
[9] Ibid., 141
[10] Steven Rybin, Michael Mann: Crime Auteur, 173
[11] Roland Barthes, Mythologies, trans. Annette Lavers (New York, Noonday Press, 1972), 108
[12] Ibid., 120
[13] Steven Rybin, Michael Mann: Crime Auteur, 171
[14] Jonah Weiner, Michael Mann’s Damaged Men, New York Times, July 20, 2022, https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/20/magazine/michael-mann-ferrari-heat-2.html
