“Write what you know.” So said Mark Twain once upon a time, or at least that’s the popular belief. One cursory look at this body of work reveals that the guy didn’t follow his own advice, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t advice worth following. Clint Bentley, working alongside longtime collaborator and co-writer Greg Kwedar (see: 2016’s “Transpecos”), has done exactly that with his first feature directing gig, “Jockey,” an honest tribute to the men and women America’s horseracing industrial complex is built upon; Bentley’s father was a jockey, and having spent his childhood on racetracks, he’s intimately familiar with the lifestyle’s endless rigors. When “Jockey” talks the talk, it speaks from experience and not artifice.
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This is fortunate, because Bentley’s star, Clifton Collins Jr., knows bupkis about what being a jockey’s actually like. As acting sins go, this one doesn’t even qualify as venial, especially given Collins’ innate gift for melting into his roles and blending into his surroundings. A typical Collins character functions as mortar for the rest of the movie, a handy reminder that there are no small parts, only small actors; whether in “Pacific Rim,” “Scott Pilgrim vs. the World,” or “Westworld,” the guy steals movies with slow-mo high-fives and dynamically enunciated cussin’. Putting him at stage center in a character study wrapped around aesthetic naturalism gives Bentley an instant check in the “win” column: Collins doesn’t have Bentley’s background, but he does ooze the kind of charisma mistaken for “effortless,” and that kind of unpretentious magnetism does wonders when paired with authentic storytelling.
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“Jockey” is nothing if not authentic, but Bentley’s intentions are humble. This is not a sweeping, soaring melodrama about a broken-down old horseman notching one last win under his belt before striding into the sunset; it’s about Jackson (Collins), who is a broken-down, old-adjacent horseman struggling with his life and fighting against his body’s expiration date. Turns out that riding takes almost as much out of the rider as the horse, and racers as tenured as Jackson have had more taken from them than most. To hear him talk about his various injuries, it’s amazing that he’s able even to stand on two feet. What’s a broken back to a veteran racer who’s only ever known sport, though? The man is determined. He wants to win, no matter what his ailing body or anxious trainer, Ruth (Molly Parker), tell him.
It’s a blessing of sorts, then, that as Jackson pushes himself toward an ill-advised final run at championship glory, he meets Gabriel (Moises Arias), a rookie on the circuit who claims he’s Jackson’s son. Having no time to spare for paternal giddyup, Jackson scoffs at the idea, but Collins plays his dismissal of the possibility as surface-level only: His mouth says no, but his eyes say “well, it wouldn’t be the craziest thing.” A jockey’s life is unpredictable at best. The odds that one of Jackson’s many past flings resulted in the birth of an unbeknownst child are higher than not. He warms to the idea that Gabriel might be his boy, and that their meeting is a fated second chance at being the father his own sire never bothered to be.
The most obvious theatrical flourish in “Jockey” is the lingering question of whether or not Gabriel’s paternity radar is on point, but frankly, that punctuation mark is secondary to the warm, melancholic atmosphere Bentley vents into his narrative. This is a deeply sad film even at the happiest of times; an innocent game of “52 card pickup,” essentially Jackson’s version of Mr. Miyagi’s patented “wax on, wax off” training technique, can’t entirely hide either man’s bumps and bruises, whether the ones suffered on horseback or inflicted on them by life’s vicissitudes. Imagine growing up believing with your whole spirit that a rider you know from papers and television is your actual dad, and imagine expressing that belief by becoming a rider yourself, proof of parentage be damned. Now, imagine being the alleged parent on the other side of that belief, which has been abruptly dropped into your lap while you’re sitting down at your life’s crossroads. There’s no way to make “Jockey” cheerful without also making it soapy, so Bentley and Kwedar focus instead on making the movie feel real.
If we’re playing the game of comparisons, then think of “Jockey” as “The Wrestler” but with horses instead of spandex and a son instead of a daughter. Just as the latter cast actual pro wrestlers in the movie alongside its star, so too does the former put Collins into a room full of actual jockeys, talking openly with one another about the countless ways they’ve crippled themselves in the course of their careers. Their war stories are horrific, enough to make anyone question the wisdom of racing for a living. But “Jockey’s” picture of the professional drive isn’t suicidal; Jackson’s arc doesn’t come down to a literal “ride or die” dichotomy, because the moment Jackson and Gabriel meet, they’re neither of them certain what they really want anymore.
Frankly, the things they want may not be compatible. In “Jockey,” it may not be possible to be a good father and a successful rider. The realization of this choice weighs on Jackson, expressed by Collins through gaunt cheeks and wary eyes; he hasn’t been to the wars, but he looks like he’s met his share of horrors in his years on the track. Jackson’s unfailing caution is a hallmark of a life lived in regret, but he’s affable, too, an easygoing presence no matter how much his mounting stresses weigh him down. Bentley’s the authority on racing, but Collins’ area of expertise appears to be fatherhood in absentia, and together they make “Jockey” their moment to shine. The film’s lived-in craftsmanship provides structure in an unstable world. Collins’ superb performance gives it soul. [B+]
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