3 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund
Watching “The Fighter” is like being strapped to an electric chair – on wheels. A circus act of white-trash exploitation that has somehow emerged as prime awards bait, the movie jolts you incessantly while flying by the seat of its beer-stained, cigarette-burned, acid-washed pants. The tone of the first hour is so loopy, it fills the mind with a wholly unnecessary barrage of thoughts: Should I laugh? Cry? Cringe? Scream? Walk out? Based on the true story of working-class boxer Micky Ward and his contender-turned-crack-addict half-brother Dicky Eklund, the 1990s-set flick gnaws on most of its Massachusetts subjects, many of whom hail from what's portrayed as an insufferable freakshow family from hell.
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