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Throughout most of his career Clint Eastwood has assumed the role of a protecting angel, sometimes deadly, often sullen or glaring, always with a swollen, golden Irish heart not far from the surface. The Leone westerns (in one of which Lee Van Cleef even describes him as a "guardian angel"), The Gauntlet,(shielding Sondra Locke), Heartbreak Hill and In The Line Of Fire all reinforce this subtle theme. In the same way as much of Scorsese's work deals with men who live with obsession, Eastwood's films often focus on men who feel obligated to protect others, and live with the pain of the consequences when they sometimes fail.

Million Dollar Baby is the story of an ingenue female boxer from the poorest levels of American society, and the relationship she develops with her trainer (Eastwood). No need to recapitulate the story, however in true Anthony Robbins/Frank Capra style she is carried to the heights of fame with, it seems, little else apart from determination and self-belief only to be tragically struck down at the height of her fame. Despite his initial grumpy reluctance to get involved, Eastwood takes her on and the dynamic eventually deepens to the point where Maggie (Hilary Swank) becomes the substitute daughter that Frankie (Eastwood) has lost. This is confirmed by the final revelation of Maggie's Gaelic boxing nickname "My darling, my blood", and the ultimate act of love that climaxes the film. Having failed once more to protect, the Eastwood character almost mythically retreats into a shadowy limbo, a Hadean nocturnal world of country inns and small diners that suggest the final resting place for all unsuccessful guardian angels.

I am inclined to think that the Academy voted Million Dollar Baby as best potential motion picture, as the finished version contains only about a frustrating thirty percent of what might have been achieved with further development of ideas. While Hilary Swank charms always with her wide-eyed vulnerability, the initial relationship is trite, as is the persisting underlying American self-delusion that all things are possible if one only believes in oneself. Even the comic-cuts character of 'Danger' fails to recognise his own limitations and returns to the gym at the end of the film for more ritualised humiliation. Plot and characterisation all show signs of unsteadiness - there is no exploration of the relationship between Eastwood and his daughter, for example, the 'success montage' is jerky and out of kilter with the rest of the film's pace, and the boxer's psychology is insufficiently examined. By the second half, the film's 'fighting Irish' undertones, Catholic confessions and soundtrack began to remind me of John Ford on a particularly maudlin day and struck this reviewer as outdated and contrivedly mawkish.

I have long been an admirer of Clint Eastwood's films and have watched them develop in depth and richness. Were it not for the existing hype, MDB could be enjoyed as a downbeat Rocky fable, even a female version of Every Which Way But Loose. However on this occasion it's hard to escape the feeling that 'Baby' is a lightweight story punching above its weight and ultimately failing to go the distance

Like several other reviewers I was taken to the film 'cold' without knowing anything about it, and after several minutes was expecting the somewhat lacklustre tunes and stock-farce characters to tip over into something edgy and contemporary. Mais non. However is this such a bad thing? Given the French predilection for unflinching realism and tragic endings, Pas Sur La Bouche can be enjoyed as a salute to the traditions of the Comedy Francaise, an expression of nationalist (anti-Brussels?) sentiment, and as a crafted product as lovingly detailed as a reproduction Deco sideboard. One is almost expected to read afterwards that Resnais had an ironic or iconoclastic subtext in mind, but the film seems to be charmingly irony-free throughout. There are no patronising modernist jabs at the shallowness of pre-war bourgeois entertainment, and in fact the period is recreated with a warm and sentimental glow. It can be argued in fact that the play has been not so much adapted for the screen as embalmed, for there are definite longueurs, the singing voices are almost uniformly mediocre, and the lack of varied or outdoor settings does detract. All in all, a charming, civilised and unexpected entertainment from one of the self-styled intellectuals of French cinema, and a brilliant recreation of an ensemble of now-forgotten French 'types'. To get an idea of precisely how far comedy has 'advanced' in 70 years, compare with Legally Blonde or My Best Friend's Wedding and you'll see my point.