Beast

 Breathe, Think, Win 

Beast begins in a rather conventional way. A former champion, a family, a past to escape from, an estranged brother, an old coach and, naturally, an opponent to face. For a while, it feels like watching the careful construction of a sports film that already knows its ending. 

Then, however, the film grows. 

And it grows without becoming any less predictable. In fact, it is precisely the predictability of the final destination that makes the journey interesting. 

The point is not, in fact, to establish whether Patton will return to the cage, but to understand why he still needs to do so. 

Around this question revolves a story in which physical combat is merely the surface of much older conflicts: his relationship with his brother, guilt, abandonment, the need for redemption, the need for money and, above all, the difficulty of distinguishing revenge from the need to give meaning to a loss. 

The theme of responsibility as a reason to fight also recalls Onslaught. But while Celeste fights to protect her daughter, Patton must above all understand whether his return to the cage is still a personal matter or whether it can become a responsibility towards others. 

The film finds its formula in a sentence Sammy repeats to Patton: 

Breathe. Because if you breathe, you can think, and if you can think, you can win. 

Breathe, think, win. 

A nearly elementary, even somewhat didactic sentence, which nevertheless works because it contains a small philosophy of control: before the gesture comes the breath, before the reaction comes thought. The fighter must not simply be stronger than his opponent; he must manage not to be completely governed by his own impulse. 

During the film, another formula appears, even more physical and brutal: 

“Eat the pain.” 

Swallow the pain. 

Do not eliminate it, do not avoid it: incorporate it. It is the logic of the gym, of discipline, of the body subjected to exertion. But it is also Patton’s condition, as he has to confront a pain that he cannot simply turn into anger. 

And perhaps this is where Beast becomes more interesting than its plot. 

The Body and the Past 

Patton is a man who stopped fighting, promised his wife he would do so, but never truly stopped being a fighter. The body preserves what the mind would like to put away. 

Returning to training is therefore also the recovery of a part of himself that had been repressed. And the octagon becomes the place where past and present inevitably come face to face. 

The characters surrounding him are particularly effective. 

Russell Crowe creates a Sammy who is rough, ironic, worn down by time and resentment: more than a coach, he is almost the guardian of a past that refuses to be forgotten. 

Rose, his daughter, is instead a particularly interesting female figure. She takes her father’s place in preparing Patton and introduces a different form of authority into his relationship with fighting: less rooted in resentment, more in discipline and an understanding of the body. 

And then there is Luciana, his wife, perhaps the character who most clearly challenges the very logic of the sports film. She does not want Patton to fight again because she loves him and because she knows the price that world can demand from him. She does not simply represent fear: she represents the life that exists outside the cage. 

It is significant that the female characters are so present in a story apparently built around male strength. In different ways, they are the ones who introduce doubt, care and limits. 

A Victory Already Written 

The final fight is predictable. There is not much to hide. 

But it works. 

It works because, by that point, it no longer matters simply to know who will win. What matters is what Patton carries with him into that cage: his brother, his past, his family, his old coach, Rose, Luciana and, above all, the need to understand whether he is fighting a man or something that belongs to his own history. 

Beast does not reinvent the MMA film, nor does it pretend to. It even begins with a few narrative naiveties, then gradually finds its own balance, thanks also to well-defined characters and a certain ability not to take itself entirely seriously. 

Its existential pedagogy is even somewhat brutal: breathe, think, eat the pain, and then fight. 

The problem, as always, is to understand what for. 

And against whom. 

Our duties are generally measured by the relationships in which we find ourselves. 

Epictetus