Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards has remained aloft as a cultural touchstone in British culture since his memorable Olympic appearance in 1988; his guileless gumption lingered as an emblem of embarrassing ‘heroic failure’ through much of the ’90s. We may have the most British film since the days of Hugh Grant; while screenwriters Sean Macaulay and Simon Kelton attempt to repurpose the story as an inspirational fairy tale, the patriotism typical of Hollywood productions is eschewed for a more personal focus on Eddie’s (Taron Egerton) struggles on the ski jump and the redemption of his reluctant trainer Bronson Peary (Hugh Jackman). The victories are small and intimate – it’s a coming-of-age tale fashioned with a buoyant sense of inferiority.
As a piece of filmmaking, the same might be said of Dexter Fletcher’s third directorial feature, which exemplifies the shaggy feeling of homegrown British cinema. The tense recreations of Eddie’s jumps – from the easy starter jump to the dizzying, terrifying height of 90 metres – are delivered with a seamless blend of VFX and practical work from action directing legend Vic Armstrong, and the rush of the jumps is immediately undercut either by bumps and bruises or Eddie’s joyous response to his modest achievements. Because they don’t feel modest; the film uses its traditional narrative construction to reanimate the audience’s genuine affection for Eddie’s love of the snow and the peculiar contemporary mania around the sport’s least distinguished success story.
That the real Eddie has admitted that about 10% of the biographical details are actually true seems irrelevant; what is being made here is a myth, a resurrection of a kind of national pride that seems to have gone out of fashion. When the media focuses so heavily on reality stars whose fame seems to be driven by their mere existence, Eddie’s commitment to such an intimidating goal – nevermind its context within the wider sporting world – feels refreshingly valuable. It may be corny, but the film embraces that cheesiness in the very demeanour of Eddie himself, grinning innocently and swigging milk before trudging faithfully back up the slopes. The familiar message to never give up on your dreams hasn’t seemed so genuine for years.
It helps to be part of another classic Hollywood narrative: that of the birth of a star. Taron Egerton awkwardly juts out his chin to distort his face from Hollywood movie star to goofy amateur athlete, but his sheer charisma is irresistible. Kingsman made him a name, but here he’s without suits, without hair wax, and the wattage even seems to have been turned up. It’s as much a coming-of-age moment for him as much as the narrative is for Eddie. Jackman has a keen commitment to the complimentary role of washed-up drunken mentor, with his fatigued, dry sense of humour contributing to the film’s essential humility.
There is nothing in Eddie the Eagle you won’t have seen before, regardless of whether you were alive or conscious to experience the Olympic mania of his time. But this is a crowd pleaser in the most pleasing sense, with moments of spectacle that vary their approach to creating tension, a bright, spry comedic sense and a great star performance to boot. You might not leave wanting to fly off a ski slope, but your dreams will be reignited in sight of one man’s unflappable passion.
Eddie the Eagle is in cinemas now.
