Raging Bull is cinema's grand codification of macho psyche. It's protagonist systematized, confined, and provoked through a precarious pitfall. He is never too distant from inferno. Emerging repeatedly from it's shadow: stealth, scared shitless, and ready to fight. Pride punctuating his bully. In steady ramp. He detonates into frenzy. Suffocating in precise chaos. An entire life's worth of making life miserable. A boxer so exhausted by reason, and too damn stubborn to quit. Hell hath no fury like one's self.
Is there redemption for Jake La Motta? Scorsese seems to think so.
So, for the second time, the Pharisees summoned the man who had been blind and said:
"Speak the truth before God.
We know this fellow is a sinner."
"Whether or not he is a sinner, I do not know," the man replied.
"All I know is this:
Once I was blind and now I can see."
- John IX, 24-26 / the New English Bible
Not yet though. A couple more rounds to make a point. Stone blind and obstinate, Jake actualizes a grandiose self-Crucifixion in ring, and begs, no demands, pummeling for his sins. He is beaten. Beaten a bloody mess. But still standing.
"You never got me down, Ray. You never got me down."
Rescued by machismo. The masculine chest thump of which all men aspire. Only glorious in the moment. Usually followed by gut and circumstance. Arrogance rides high and wild with this breed of cocksucker. He ain't done yet and he still can't see.
And then, bottom. Jailed (does it really matter what for?), Jake releases an orgy of head butts and jabs on some poor brick wall. Connecting each time. Flattening his forehead and knuckles in the process. His skin and blood left for show. A life's regret. The raging bull is finally alone. Pathetic in his dark...
His glorious entrance here.
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