Torsten Ruether on his latest movie, Uppercut

Uppercut is an English language remake of your 2021 German film,
Leberhaken. What challenges did you face in translating the story for an
American audience?

From the very beginning it was clear that the American version needed higher stakes,
less European abstraction, more pressure you can physically feel. I wanted to add a
second narrative layer that deepens the theme, not decorates it. That’s why Tony
isn’t just a fighter here; years later she becomes a boxing manager, caught between
preparing a championship fight and dealing with a seriously ill child at home. That
tension felt brutally honest to the business and gave the story real emotional closure.

We also widened the distance between the characters. By relocating the story to
Bushwick, New York, Tony collides with an older, wiser, but deeply worn boxing
coach whose background as a man of color puts him worlds apart from her: A third
generation, relatively privileged European immigrant who still carries a trace of her
accent. That cultural and generational gap creates friction you can’t fake.

Finally, it was crucial that Elliot be played by someone with absolute credibility and
lived authority. We were incredibly fortunate to find a talent who brought exactly that
weight, wisdom, and humanity to the role.

For those that might not have seen the original version, are there any
significant changes between the two versions?

The most significant change is the added time layer. In Uppercut, we follow Tony
years later as a boxing promoter managing a protégé heading into a major
championship fight. That entire storyline doesn’t exist in the original. Leberhaken is
much more contained: one location, one timeframe, and a radical reduction of the
story to the pure essence of two people in a room.

Another key difference is the nature of the central relationship. In the German version
there’s a subtle, unspoken emotional and physical tension between the two
characters. Never acted upon, but very much present in the air. That undercurrent
was deliberately removed for Uppercut. For this story, and for this cultural context, it
felt more honest to focus entirely on mentorship, legacy, and responsibility rather
than attraction.

Luise „Luiii” Grossmann plays the lead role in both versions. Can you tell us
how you worked together on the English language version?

Working with Luise on the English-language version was both physically demanding
and creatively very precise. She went through an intense boxing preparation, training
multiple times with former world champion Regina Halmich who pushed her hard, even though Luise already comes from a high-performance sports background as a former national youth pole vaulter in Germany.

On the acting side, we focused on a very specific tension: insecurity wrapped in
bravado. That combination gives Tony a certain edge and eccentricity, which
becomes even more meaningful in a fully American environment where she still feels
like an outsider. Her accent, her hesitation, the sheer effort it takes for her to walk
into Elliot’s gym, all of that instantly signals how high the emotional barriers are.

Luise had to carry multiple layers: the young fighter, then years later the manager
and mother, adding new colors without ever losing the underlying rhythm of the
character. A deep desire for recognition, in the ring, in the business, and in life. She
navigated all of that with remarkable clarity, and it mirrors beautifully against the
character played by Ving Rhames. That balance is what ultimately created the strong
chemistry between them.

How did Ving Rhames get involved with the film?

Ving’s involvement actually came about in a very classic way. We were working with
a fantastic casting director, Michelle Lewitt, and in our very first conversation about
the role of Elliot, she mentioned Ving Rhames almost immediately. I’ll admit my first
reaction was shock. I was hoping for a strong, credible actor, but I would never have
dared to think of a true icon.

Michelle sent the material to Ving’s agent, and then, as it often goes, there was
silence for a while. Then one night in Berlin, I got a call from his manager who simply
said, “We read your script. Ving is interested.” I honestly didn’t believe it at first, I had
to sit down and let it sink in.

From there, everything moved quickly. We found a window that worked, aligned
schedules, and suddenly something that felt almost unreal became possible. Having
Ving bring his presence, gravity, and humanity to Elliot elevated the entire film.

What was the hardest thing to get right, overall?

Creatively, the set itself was never the hard part. We had an exceptional crew and a
shared excitement about making something slightly unconventional, so the
atmosphere was genuinely joyful. The real challenge was everything surrounding the
shoot.

We were working right in the middle of the writers’ and actors’ strikes, which meant
long interruptions, waivers, constant re-planning. Between the shoot with Ving and
the second time layer in New York with Jordan E. Cooper and Joanna Cassidy, we
had to pause for almost half a year just to keep the film alive.

It became a logistical marathon rather than an artistic one. And anyone who knows
independent filmmaking today understands how many clocks are always ticking,
often straight against the budget. That administrative pressure, not the creative
process, was what caused the real sleepless nights.

Do you have a favourite scene in the film?

I think there are two scenes that stay with me. One is the rooftop moment between
Tony and Elliot. The conversation about his mother, about what shaped him, and
about why he became the man he is. What I love there is how the dynamic subtly
shifts: after everything that’s happened, Tony starts asking the questions and Elliot
answers. There’s a real sense of trust and equality between them. We shot that
scene as a one-take, and everyone on set felt how special it was while it was
happening.

The other scene is in the second time layer, the powerful exchange between Tony
and Rida, played by Joanna Cassidy. That pep talk still gets to me, it shows how a
value system, clearly articulated at the right moment, can lead to a small but deeply
meaningful kind of happy ending.

In those two scenes, the craft and presence of actors like Ving Rhames and Joanna
Cassidy really shine. For me, they’re the emotional lighthouses of the film.

Did you cut anything out that you were sorry to lose?

Yes. It was a quiet exchange between Tony and Elliot where they talk about Million
Dollar Baby. Tony openly admires the film, while Elliot is more conflicted about its
ending and overall setup. For me, the scene worked as a subtle nod, almost a bow,
to a film that’s deeply embedded in the boxing genre.

We debated for a long time whether referencing it so directly served the larger story,
and in the end, we decided to let it go. Part of that was also about tone. Ving was
understandably less interested in approaching that conversation from a critical angle,
especially given his respect for Clint Eastwood’s work.

Looking back, it’s one of those moments that might have added an extra layer of
genre awareness. But sometimes the right choice for the film is knowing when to step
back and let the story stand on its own.

You’ve stated that the film isn’t really about boxing and is more of an intimate
character study. What would you like audiences to take away from the film?

What mattered most to me was curiosity. Especially in the world we’re living in right
now, curiosity feels almost radical. The relationship at the heart of the film is built on two people who, at first glance, have absolutely no reason to be curious about each
other. Socially, culturally, emotionally. In fact, everything suggests they shouldn’t be.

And yet, that curiosity slowly takes over. Over the course of one night, and later
echoed in the second time layer, they allow themselves to stay open, to listen and to
reconsider what they thought they knew.

If audiences take anything away from Uppercut, I hope it’s a reminder of what can
happen when you lean into that openness. When you don’t shut a door just because
it feels unfamiliar. Sometimes the most meaningful connections begin exactly where
you least expect them.

You’ve also stated that Luise and Ving started to improvise as you shot long
takes in sequence. Was there a particular improvised moment or line that
stands out for you, that made it into the final cut?

There was one moment that really stands out. Toward the end of the film, there’s a
training sequence where Tony is working the heavy bag and Elliot joins her, giving
what starts as a very classical boxing lesson. The plan was simple: about ninety
seconds, maybe two minutes, with our camera operators moving around them, just
enough material to shape the scene.

What actually happened was something else entirely. Luiii and Ving completely forgot
the cameras, forgot us, forgot time. The first take ran for fourteen minutes straight.
No cuts. Just the two of them training, breathing, adjusting to each other. My DP and
first AD kept looking at me, silently asking if we should stop. And I just let it run.

When we finally called cut, the line producer picked up the phone and said, almost in
disbelief, “They just did a fourteen-minute take.” It worked because both actors were
fully inside the moment, Ving drawing on his own boxing experience, Luiii grounded
in the intense preparation she’d done beforehand.

The essence of the sequence made it into the film because it carries something you
can’t choreograph: trust, rhythm, and a kind of quiet magic. Being present for those
fourteen minutes was special for all of us, one of those rare moments where
filmmaking simply disappears and something real takes over.

The structure of the film is intriguing. What challenges did that present at the
editing stage? Did you make any editing choices that you’re especially happy
with?

From the beginning, we knew the edit would gently challenge the audience. Moving
between two time layers always means asking viewers to stay alert, to connect small
details rather than having everything spelled out. That was very intentional.

One of the choices I’m happiest with is how the timelines are woven together through
Tony’s phone calls. By cutting between the same conversations with Darius, first as
her boyfriend in the earlier timeline, later as her husband, we were able to show the
evolution of a relationship without exposition. The emotional weight of those calls
changes, even though the voice on the other end stays the same.

We also worked carefully to mirror the escalating pressure in both timelines: the
intensity of the night with Elliot and, years later, the night of Payne’s championship
fight. Through parallel cuts and visual analogies, the stress, trust, and responsibility
begin to echo each other. For me, that’s where the structure really comes together,
not as a puzzle, but as an emotional rhythm that connects the two stories.

Did you have a rehearsal period with the actors beforehand?

Yes, we did. We spent an intense week in rehearsals, mostly focused on reading and
breaking down the script together, Ving, Luise, and myself. It was less about blocking
and more about understanding what the story is really trying to say, where these
characters come from, and how they slowly move toward each other.

The chemistry was already there during those readings, and I’m convinced that laid
the foundation for the trust they later built on set. I’m especially grateful that Ving
gave us that time. He really embraced the process, and you could feel how much it
helped him step into the role with confidence and a sense of creative safety.

Who are your inspirations as a filmmaker? Do you remember the film or films
that made you decide to be a writer-director?

My influences are wide-ranging, but there are a few filmmakers I keep coming back
to with real reverence. Richard Linklater, Peter Weir, and Jane Campion all share
something I deeply admire: beyond their visual brilliance, they have an extraordinary
ability to make dialogue feel quiet, precise, and emotionally alive, letting meaning
emerge between the lines rather than pushing it forward.

I still think often about The Piano by Jane Campion. The way Sam Neill, Holly Hunter,
and Harvey Keitel form this almost vibrating emotional triangle. It’s intimate, tense,
and deeply cinematic without ever raising its voice. Linklater’s subtle humor and
human observation, and Peter Weir’s gift for combining visual elegance with profound
emotional depth, have been equally formative for me.

I’d also add Robert Redford, whose work behind the camera has always impressed
me as much as his performances in front of it.

The films that made me want to write and direct weren’t about spectacle, they were
about presence, rhythm, and emotional truth. And despite all the challenges the
streaming era has brought, there’s something wonderful about having access to this
vast cinematic history at any moment. Being able to return to these films, again and
again, is still one of the greatest sources of inspiration for me.

Are you a fan of sports movies in general? What’s the appeal of the genre, for
you?

I am, very much so, even though I don’t approach the genre from a purely athletic
angle. Sports films have something deeply primal about them. They create a natural
arena for high stakes, for pressure, failure, and resilience. And at their core, they’re
often classic David-versus-Goliath stories. As viewers, we instinctively root for the
underdog, that’s almost hard-wired into us.

When sports films really work, they invite you to feel alongside the characters, not
just watch them compete. Of course, that includes the great boxing films,
from Rocky to Clint Eastwood’s work, but the genre goes far beyond boxing. A film
like Black Swan treats ballet with the same intensity and brutality as a contact sport.
And Any Given Sunday by Oliver Stone still amazes me with its raw sensory power,
the sound design alone makes you feel like you can hear bones crack.

Films that explore physical extremes with that level of intimacy always pull me in.
Even though my own instinct leans toward character and dialogue, stories like these
never leave me cold, because at their best, they’re not about winning or losing, but
about what pressure reveals in people.

What’s the most important lesson you have learned in your filmmaking career
so far?

Stay flexible and don’t rely on anything you think is guaranteed.

What’s next for you?
Right now, we’re preparing a new project and moving into that exciting space
between development and pre-packaging. Some kind of momentum and, as always
these days, a fair amount of moving parts.

What I can say is that it has nothing to do with sports. It’s a very different direction
creatively, though New York will once again play an important role. What’s been
especially rewarding is seeing early interest from agents and talent already
responding to the material. That phase, when conversations start before anything is
officially in place, is always the most energizing.

I do think the collaboration with Ving, and the way that experience resonated, has
traveled. That’s something I’m genuinely proud of. The new script was written last
spring, and my hope is to bring it into production later this year. Fingers crossed, and
I’ll definitely share more once there’s something concrete to announce.

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