Blood trickling down his cheek, LaMotta smiles at his brother and fondly pinches him on the chin. He goads him further and Joey finally punches him. “Punch me in the face,” demands De Niro of Joey in one of the opening scenes, the snares of scar tissue around his eyes and thin lines of stitches and their pink welds not yet healed. In almost every scene De Niro articulates hair-trigger menace against his two wives, particularly his second wife, Vikki, played sublimely by Cathy Moriarty, mob members, Joey, his opponents, sparring partners and himself. It is a portrait of psychotic violence and paranoia. Not many movies get close to director Martin Scorsese's chill factor in his treatment of the New York boxer. Already in his 10th professional bout when the biopic enters his fighting life, he is already far along the path of drawing no distinction between the ring canvas and the kitchen. The shock value of Raging Bull is in the assaults and brutality, which are not confined to LaMotta fighting his way to the world title. It is all to the operatic backdrop of the Intermezzo from Cavalleria rusticana by Italian composer Pietro Mascagni, and long before the classical music score became a modern-day cliche as a counterpoint for epic violence. LaMotta's acceptance, even celebration of the beating he receives from Sugar Ray Robinson, who he fights five times, is an act of contrition for the pain he causes to those he loves most. It is the only ennobling flash of humanity we get from DeNiro's portrayal. Sharply edited with an emphasis on impact and body damage, a telling half smile on LaMotta’s face reveals early and more than once that he doesn’t at all mind the slapping hurt. ”Ĭelebrated despite claiming just 10 minutes of the film, the noir feel of the fight sequences are cut with documentary footage of LaMotta in his corner. “Tell me why the fuck we have to come to Cleveland for you to be beaten by a moulan yan.
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