Selling Sunset

The Physics of Desperation

There’s an entire strain of American sports flick that asks us to forgive its flouting of gravity and biology. Frank Coraci’s *Here Comes the Boom* walks up to that line, gives it a suspicious look, and then executes an awkward lunge over it. The concept is ridiculous: a listless biology teacher past his prime decides the only way to save the school’s music program from being cut is to drag himself into the punishing world of pro mixed martial arts.

On paper, it shouldn’t fly. The screenplay is basically a patchwork of every “save the rec center” cliché we’ve seen since the eighties. Yet there’s something oddly tenacious about the movie’s sincerity. It doesn’t lean on miracles; it simply asks us to believe in the frantic, messy, sometimes embarrassing lengths we go to when we feel we’ve let down the people who count on us.



Kevin James has long played the sweet, clueless guy in over his head, and here he settles into that role with a surprising tenderness. Observe his movement early on. He isn’t a fighter. He waddles. He walks like someone who’s given in to the couch, the TV dinners, the slow surrender of unused potential. When he finally enters the cage, the movie doesn’t attempt to turn him into a chiseled warrior. He stays that soft-haired suburban dad, struggling to stay upright. That’s what gives the film a little spark—it honors the physics of this man. His victories come not from divine transformation but from refusing to stay down.

This isn’t pretend-high art. It’s lean, well-brushed comfort food, shaped by Coraci, who has a knack for Sandler-style blue-collar fantasies. Still, it holds together structurally better than most of its peers. Roger Ebert, usually quick to skewer sentimental fare, gave it a warm review, saying the film “has a lot of heart and is fun to watch.” I get it. The stakes are intimate—not world domination, but keeping a music teacher employed, making sure a kid still gets to play the clarinet.



Surprisingly, the heart of the movie isn’t the fights. It’s Henry Winkler. As Marty, the veteran music teacher, Winkler embodies the soul of the story—the personification of what happens when the art that defines you disappears. There’s a scene where he listens to his students perform, and his expression crinkles—not into melodramatic despair, but a quiet, resigned acceptance that he’s run out of time. It’s an understated, restrained turn. After years of playing the effortlessly cool Fonz, watching him reveal vulnerability and obsolescence is a gentle reminder that even legends age and change.

The film does stumble when it leans into the “fight movie” trappings. The editing in the final bouts is frantic, snipping away just when you want to see how the fight actually unfolds, hiding the hits instead of showing them. And Salma Hayek—who brings so much wit and presence to every frame—is largely relegated to the “supportive love interest” box, an afterthought from a script that couldn’t figure out what to do with its sharpest player. That’s a legit flaw. It makes the movie feel stuck in its era, tethered to tired conventions about what a hero needs in his corner.



Still, I couldn’t help admiring its stubborn, absurd logic. *Here Comes the Boom* implies that maybe we’re all scrapping for something, even if our “ring” is a classroom or an underfunded music room. It’s about the audacity of trying, about how someone unequipped can still put up a barrier against the slow erosion of what matters. It’s not a masterpiece, and it won’t rewrite your worldview, but for an hour or two it might convince you that a little sweat and an abundance of stubbornness can make a difference. That’s worth something.