A word of warning: This is ostensibly a review of Kyle Marvin’s 80 For Brady, a too-mild sex comedy that looks like shit and doesn’t give its impressive cast much to do, but it’ll probably go a bit broader than that. See, if I had the kind of I-don’t-give-a-fuck vigor that someone like J. Hoberman has, I’d probably have put Super Bowl VI on my list of the best films of 2016, much like Hoberman did with Game 6 of the ‘86 World Series. It probably would have been ranked lower than, say, XLIX, which I’m pretty sure would have been in the top five given the drama of its conclusion. Nevertheless, it would have beaten out a ton of other on-screen narratives released that year for how impossibly compelling it was. “28-3” is a meme at this point, but there was no doubting that the Falcons’ third-quarter lead against the Patriots seemed insurmountable – and it practically was, as Andy Richter points out here, cameoing as a Marky-Mark substitute who is about to leave the game, despite having paid for a box in Houston’s NRG Stadium. I’ll spare you the game re-cap, but that game is studded with iconic moments – Julio Jones’ crazy catch, Matt Ryan getting strip-sacked, Julian Edelman’s even crazier catch, the two-point conversions, James White muscling his way into the end zone – that would not be out of place on a Dorchester diner’s walls, like the Malcolm Butler interception is at one of my favorite eats in Cleveland Circle (get the Hungry Man when you go to Eagle’s Deli, folks, because that’s a hell of a sandwich). Getting to that game serves as the plot animus for 80 For Brady, and, indeed, we get to see a whole lot of that gorgeous NFL Films footage captured on the day. That is all available on YouTube, and makes up much of the film’s most exciting moments.
Take that away, and you’re left with an impeccably charming cast of brilliant actors – Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, Rita Moreno, and Sally Field – all dressed up with nowhere to go. Clearly, someone in the producing team saw Girls Trip and assumed that they could make a PG-13 version for New England audiences without really understanding what made that film so much unbridled fun while overestimating Tom Brady’s popularity outside of New England and select enclaves in Florida. As an on-screen presence here, he’s got fewer skills than, say, Lebron, who can actually be funny in a Judd Apatow movie, but the movie also kind of plays on Brady’s most interesting attribute as an athlete. Outside of maybe Steph Curry, Brady’s ascent from late-round draft pick to G.O.A.T. was about as unlikely as coming back from that halftime deficit. It took Drew Bledsoe getting injured for him to see any playtime and Adam Vinatieri’s legs to get him to that first Super Bowl and then to get him those first few rings. But if there was any doubt – even after the two losses to Eli in 2007 and 2012 – that Brady was one of the greatest ever to play the sport, buffeted by an excellent system organized around him by Bill Belichick and company, it was wholly eradicated by VI’s conclusion. And given that Brady’s a producer on the project, with this story having been selected, though highly fictionalized, from his real-life fanbase, it acts as a functional hagiography. Yet that doubt makes him momentarily interesting on-screen here and was essential to his legacy: His on-field performance remains so memorable and captivating, even in the highlight reels, because of that.
When you strip away the treacly story and bad comedy, you’re left with the Achilles’ heel of Brady’s time in Tampa: That doubt giving way to a self-assuredness that was atypical for him, especially after that Super Bowl win in 2021. It’s a kind of self-priding tribute that Brady might have shied away from in previous decades – remember how uncomfortable he looked in those UGG ads back in the ’10s? – but one that is not altogether undeserved, given his success and what he means to the people who spent much of their lives rooting for him. I don’t think it’s an accident that Brady retired this week – if he actually retired at all, given his shenanigans last season, though his circumstances are incredibly different – and it may goose 80 For Brady’s box office a little bit. However, I doubt it’ll have much of an effect on whether or not your average Cowboys fan goes out to see a movie celebrating the life and times of America’s most hated quarterback (it’ll do especially poorly in Atlanta, too). But the truth is that few athletes, in the modern era need fictionalized narrative films made about their lives. A while back, David Foster Wallace wrote an essay about the banality of athlete memoirs, which mainly serve as venues for gossip given the intangibility of describing, say, what happens when you come up with a miraculous bobbled catch in the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl. A similar perspective applies here: the movie doesn’t seek to answer the question of “why” or “what,” and it’s not particularly interesting or funny in any other aspect, though it’s funny to see Moreno trip balls and Sally Field eat hot wings at a Guy Fieri-sponsored contest (yes, we go to Flavortown in this one). What we’re given are those precious moments, captured on high-speed cameras, of skill and grace under pressure, which define Brady’s legacy as a player, and of the Cinderella story that, in most ways, defines the shape of many athlete’s careers, including all sorts of unknown ones.
What he had was luck, buffeted by that talent and the Patriots’ system, the good fortune to be at the right place at the right time throughout his career. Super Bowls are often pretty boring affairs – like a coin flip, it’s almost a 50/50 chance as to whether not the game will be any fun to watch – but Brady, with that story and all those complimenting factors, made them something other than orgies of advertising and slow-cooker assisted gluttony. But after having lived through all of those moments, how do you interpret them? How do you write the tale of that long life and career, shaped by an unknowable cosmic entity – be it God or the law of averages or whatever a ProFootballTalk commenter is willing to attribute it to – without letting other people pen it for you? 80 For Brady offers proof of how insurmountable that task can be, even with the backing of a great cast and the numbers of folks involved in producing this scale. It is a testament to the ephemeral nature of glory and one raging against the dying of the light – which is why I imagine Brady found the story of these older women making their way to see him play more than just an example of flatter – even when that calm movement towards the ocean surface starts gives way to wild flailing, with your lungs on fire and tired arms. The current will sweep us all out to sea, but the light remains for us to strive towards, and Brady was fortunate enough to be in it long enough to get a nice tan. Not even 80 For Brady can take that sunshine away.