"The Lord in My Corner" could have been an alternate title for this slight, but relatively enjoyable boxing film. Wynn is a conman who is always looking for the best way to score another buck. He happens upon preacher's son Martin, who is on the lam after slugging (and possibly killing) a thug who was chasing him. With the help of his wife (Winters), Wynn proceeds to turn Martin into a fast-rising boxing celebrity while Martin socks his percentage of the money away to fund his father's church. Wynn is after the dough while Martin feels he is fighting for God's cause. Winters is on hand basically to keep Wynn in line and knit in the audience during all the bouts (and apparently works on the same product ad nauseam, the world's longest-taking muffler!) It isn't all quite as pious and dry as it sounds, thanks mostly to a fairly lively cast of mostly familiar faces. Wynn does a good job as the chiseler who is always on the verge of turning good. Winters is a tad shrill occasionally and her part is only marginally interesting, but she and Wynn share a nice chemistry. Martin is utterly adorable and exceedingly fit and sexy. His character is endearingly naive and charming and his first attempt at boxing involves a pair of oversized shorts which occasionally reveal the tiniest hint of tan line on his yummy little frame. Also on board is Holliman as a dim-witted palooka who (in a sometimes excruciatingly-annoying running gag) keeps a harmonica in his mouth and provides background music with it! Then there's Bronson as a menacing, wiry, infamous prizefighter who Martin has to defeat in the climactic showdown. The story is pat and trite and contrived in the extreme, but it's also endearing in its simplicity and sincerity of performances. A couple of nagging questions: Why would Martin, a preacher's son, not be able to read? Wouldn't pop want him to be able to study the Bible? Also, why does Martin need to follow a hymn book for "Old Time Religion", a song he would have surely known by heart if he knew the Bible by heart? These things, and the unlikely coincidence of Bronson being the fighter at the end, betray the amateurish nature of the script, but there are worse way to spend an hour and a half.
Review of Tennessee Champ
