Clint: bloody but unbowed

If you are a moderately bored divorced middle-aged man and you’ve got the children this weekend take them to see Invictus. It is ideal. You can get quietly drunk beforehand, watch the first ten minutes and then fall into two hours of dreamless sleep, free from the fear of being unable to discuss the plot with your earnest progeny afterwards. There is no philandering with history here. Your sons and daughters can admire Mandela and Pienaar defy the ingrained remnants of apartheid and the Springboks’ singular lack of talent. The Rainbow Nation is united by winning the Rugby world cup in South Africa. You can nod sagely. Pointing out that you were there and that the film was true to history.

Invictus is the antithesis of Clint Eastwood’s recent dark successes – Gran Torino and Mystic River among others. Superficially, it is as hackneyed as its name suggests – Out of the night that covers me/ Black as the Pit from pole to pole/ I thank whatever gods may be/ For my unconquerable soul etc. And Morgan Freeman’s long-awaited turn as Mandela is nothing more than a pastiche. But what else could it be? The extent of Mandela’s deserved fame is unparalleled.

But for the most part Invictus escapes Mandela's legacy and fixes the viewer in the past well beyond 1990-95. Eastwood, Freeman and Matt Damon have produced a film that is funny, tense and inspiring in its own right. The lashings of Hollywood smoltz pass unnoticed. If you haven’t drifted-off under the weight of Castle lager consumed prior to the screening, you'll be fighting the temptation to cry. Success is in your hands: you’re the master of your fate.