When Nelson Mandela was asked who he would like to play him were a film to ever be made about his life, he promptly and proudly thrust Morgan Freeman’s name forth, a move unsurprising given not only his obvious physical resemblance to Mandela, but also Freeman’s cinematic stature as an icon whose work has frequently found him embroiled in tempestuous, even violent race relations (particularly evocative is Unforgiven). Morgan Freeman shines in the role he was seemingly born to play, directed by frequent collaborator and master in his own right, Clint Eastwood.

Invictus traces Mandela’s attempts to reunite South Africa at the end of apartheid, from his release from prison in 1990, to his becoming Prime Minister in 1994, and in 1995, his slyest play of all; urging the national rugby team, the Springboks, to win the rugby World Cup and inspire the country to get along (given that the black South Africans view the predominantly white rugby team as representative of oppression). Through his interactions with the Springboks’ captain, François Pienaar (Matt Damon), we observe the subtle political web that Mandela is spinning, and the extent to which sports can have a nation-wide, even global impact.

Eastwood’s biggest achievement with Invictus is in conveying the palpable racial tension and paranoia that permeated throughout South Africa during this time, extending to even Mandela’s own security team, who sweat bullets when a newspaper van appears on their street. Mandela is tasked with balancing black aspirations against white fears, for the blacks have an opportunity for greater equality, while the whites feel that they are being encroached upon, and their national identity is being diminished. Some whites even refer to Mandela as a terrorist, and the film is smart-headed and even-handed enough to draw attention to this, even if the overarching portrait of Mandela is of a reasonable man with the very best intentions at heart.

So much of this film, understandably so, is about the iconography of apartheid; in one scene, members of the rugby board attempt to change the national team’s name and colours, and in another, one child, when presented with an old Springboks uniform, refuses to wear it for fear of being heckled by the other kids. Mandela, however, is an abstract thinker; he refuses to purge the stains of past torment so easily, promoting forgiveness and reconfiguration of what the name and colours represent rather than outright conflagration. To this end, Freeman’s Mandela delivers a stirring monologue, but despite his persuasive charm, the cuts of old run deep, and he is far from a successful demagogue on his own merits.

Thus, the rugby becomes a political conceit, for if the Springboks can even just make it to the final, it will result in a billion eyes on their nation. Mandela’s methods baffle sports pundits and even the Springboks themselves, who fear that by being forced to train local youths between games, they are being overworked, yet Mandela is so clever that by the time we see the cogs turning, footage of the largely-white Springboks training the largely-black youths has reached the news outlets, and he has manipulated the media with masterful prowess.

At 135 minutes, Invictus is a fairly meaty picture, packed with plenty of seemingly ancillary elements, such as Pienaar visiting Mandela’s former prison cell on Robben Island. However, the serene, meditative power of Pienaar peering through the prison bars, imagining what Mandela endured here, while a Freeman voiceover narrates the film’s eponymous poem by William Ernest Henley, makes it absolutely vital.

Just as diverting is the friction and constant jostling for position between Mandela’s two separate security details – one black, one white – as it essentially allegorises the tension inherent in the country at large. As the Springboks flourish during the World Cup, shots of the detail playing rugby together in Mandela’s garden are certainly evocative. As Mandela himself says in the film, small moments of juxtaposition such as these say more than a dozen lectures, and it is all the more praise to Eastwood that he focuses on setting a political stage foregrounded by a sporting event rather than delivering a sermon.

And what a stage he sets. By the third reel, we know what’s on the line, and an ominous pan to New Zealand’s Jonah Lomu in the tunnel prior to the final game elevates the tension a fair few notches, even though the outcome is known. Once the whistle blows, Eastwood treats us to one of the best-filmed scenes you’re likely to see in a sports pic, cutting between the gorgeously-photographed action, and the jubilant reactions of both the black and white denizens. Like Pienaar’s mid-game inspirational speech, it’s an obvious, yet undeniably effective contrivance, and in what better hands could it be than Clint Eastwood’s? It would take an ardent cynic not to smile by the game’s final whistle, even if the subsequent shots of blacks and whites embracing one another is a touch pat.

This certainly isn’t Eastwood’s strongest directorial effort, for Invictus doesn’t offer an especially probing look at Mandela, but it is a very classy prestige pic, and far from the Oscar bait it will doubtless be monikered as. It is a testament to Eastwood’s talent, after such a strong streak of films over the last decade, that a film as robust as this can rank among the lower end. It’s regardless an inspiring and engaging film that’s bolstered by two stellar, recently Oscar-nominated performances. Though Freeman’s showy turn trumps Damon’s more stoic performance, the palpable chemistry between the two makes Invictus, for fear of cliché, a joy to behold.

The outcome is known, and the inspirational sports story is beyond shop-worn, but Eastwood’s direction is exceptional, and the dedicated performances make it worth a watch, even if it’s not quite the fully-fledged classic it could have been. It is nevertheless a resolutely inspiring, even entertaining, if broad film.