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But before we overdose on cynicism, let me say that Invictus, while it does have moments of stodgy uplift, is more fascinating — and intelligent, and moving — than it sounds. It's really about the inner workings of politics, and about how Mandela made a hugely counterintuitive decision: to embrace the Springboks even though they were despised by the nation's black majority (the team wore the colors of the apartheid-era flag). He knew that supporting the ''enemy'' would symbolize a laying down of old hatreds, thus paving the way for a new nation.
It's thrilling to watch Freeman do his perfect imitation of Mandela's lordly, formal cadences. That's because Freeman captures the mind behind the manners: Mandela the crafty persuader who orchestrated his fan worship of the Springboks as an act of high-wire rebellion. Invictus often suggests a spiritual link between Mandela's cunning and the strategies of Barack Obama, with a rough parallel between the film's righteously angry black South Africans and the progressives whom Obama won't appease. The film's speechifying is at times overexplicit, yet Freeman lets the words breathe, and Damon, as the cautious Afrikaner brought to a higher place by Mandela's authority, acts with a coolly impassive fervor. And how is Invictus as a sports movie? Let's just say that its lump-in-the-throat climax is predictable, but that doesn't mean it's less than earned.