The Wrestler

Dir. Darren Aronofsky

Jan. 19, 2008

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Darren Aronofsky’s “The Wrestler,” a touching character study about a collapsed icon of the half-mad world of professional wrestling, is being hailed in TV ads as “the resurrection of Mickey Rourke,” and with good reason. Rourke is spectacularly convincing as Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a booze and drug inflated ball of flesh who, after experiencing a near-fatal heart attack, finally realizes he’s forgotten to experience human interactions that don’t involve kicking, biting, punching, and slamming.

Rourke has admitted in interviews that he knows he has no one to blame but himself for turning a once promising screen career into the wages of being an asshole, but even if you weren’t aware of his off-camera past, this would still be a remarkable performance. Rourke shades Robinson with lovely warmth, self-aware humor, and compassion, even when he’s preparing to twist somebody into a bruised pretzel.

There’s not a false note in his performance; he enters the Ram’s psyche at ground level, and keeps his spirit rooted in unforgiving reality, from beginning to end. Although an Oscar hardly stands as validation of an actor’s work - remember, Roberto Begnini has one, and he’s not giving it back - if Rourke were to receive the big award for bringing this character to such memorable life, I certainly wouldn’t complain. Good for him and his Chihuahua.

That said, Aronofsky deserves some credit, too. This is a surprisingly sensitive picture from a director who’s spent his career drawing attention to himself through a histrionic filmmaking style that actually out conniption-fits Oliver Stone. “The Wrestler” isn’t quite free of Aronofsky’s childish inclination to rub viewers’ noses in degradation, but at least he’s finally learned the pivotal lesson that drama arises from honest human emotion, rather than the manic rotation of camera lenses and film stocks.

The real key to “The Wrestler” lies in how Randy is still able to connect with other people when he feels most at home dehumanizing himself. It's apparent that there’s a heart beating beneath the steroids, even at the grocery store where he works unloading trucks, and, in one of the film’s more entertaining sequences, slicing meat and dishing out potato salad behind the deli counter.

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Randy’s only sources of comfort are clowning around with the kids who live at the trailer park, and hanging out at his favorite low-rent strip club, where he’s falling for an aging, but still quite sexy, stripper who calls herself “Cassidy” (Marisa Tomei.) Cassidy is Adrian to Randy’s Rocky, but I suppose there’s no avoiding that. The game in any genre picture lies in twisting the narrative to a uniquely illuminating degree, which, at least until the final sequence, never quite happens with “The Wrestler.”

Robert D. Siegel’s screenplay feels so slight it could have been interpreted as a short film. When Randy finally screws up the courage to visit the daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) that he abandoned when she was a child, what’s supposed to be a pivotal moment in the main character’s personal journey feels more like a sidebar that keeps us away from the eye gouging. Certainly, a couple more scenes between the two of them would have served the movie well.

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It’s worth stressing that squeamish viewers should avoid this one like the plague. Aronofsky repeatedly makes the point that it’s no fun wrestling for very little glory, and even less pay, in front of gymnasiums full of hooting semi-literates. And he doesn’t flinch when Randy and his co-horts inflict horrific wounds on each other - and themselves - via, among other things, razor blades, kitchen forks, and barbed wire.

The apparent point is that we bring our pain upon ourselves, and Randy’s useless self-flagellation becomes gag-inducing in the ring. The most hideous things that happen to the wrestlers are agreed upon in advance, and the participants proceed with little concern for their personal well-being. Randy, like most of us, has never been on the receiving end of a staple gun. But when his upcoming opponent presents the option to him, he figures “Why not?” Anything to hear a cheer. The cumulative effect of this mindset, though, almost kills him.

Easily the most obvious moment in the script is Cassidy’s reference to Jesus’ ability to absorb a holy beating in “The Passion of the Christ;” she even jokingly refers to Randy as “the sacrificial Ram.” It’s wise of Aronofsky to drop that particular line of thought, and, given his previously displayed attachment to thick symbolism, his restraint is altogether unexpected. Regardless of the bulky characters, there’s not enough muscle in this movie to handle that kind of weight. Better that Randy pursues the needs of his own heart than to try to lift the world on his battle-scarred shoulders.

“The Wrestler” contains violence, profanity, nudity, drug use, and sex. Bruce Springsteen’s theme song, by the way, is first-rate, and deftly captures the elegiac tone. Oh, yeah— that snotty, sarcastic guy who plays Randy’s boss at the grocery store is a friend of mine, comedian Todd Barry. Rest assured it didn’t take much for him to get into character. Rated R. 115 minutes.

Paul Tatara

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