THE WRESTLER

Review: The Wrestler
4.5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Those of you who'll be participating in an Oscar pool with friends or colleagues this year would be wise to check off Mickey Rourke in the category of Best Actor. Like Charlize Theron's serial killer in "Monster" or Forest Whitaker's dictator in "The Last King of Scotland," Rourke's starring role in director Darren Aronofsky's painfully human character study, "The Wrestler," is one that comes around once in a lifetime. That he tears through it like lacerated flesh and has emerged the comeback kid of 2008 (sorry, Robert Downey Jr.) are only further incentives for Academy voters to take notice. If anyone's poised to rob Sean Penn of his second gold statue, it's Rourke, who you'd think spent his time away from the spotlight consulting the ghost of Laurence Olivier. As Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a washed-up and broken-down pro wrestler still clinging to his glory days in the '80s, Rourke creates an unfeigned, audacious self portrait. What Aronofsky and writer Robert D. Siegel create is a low-budget flick that's more captivating than most multi-million dollar blockbusters.


Best known for the daredevil stylistics of “Requiem for a Dream” and “The Fountain,” Aronofsky proves equally capable of stripping things down to their gritty core. Often shot with handheld cameras and finished with Eastwood-like minimalism, “The Wrestler” looks and feels as bruised and battered as its central character. It's a tactful aesthetic decision by Aronofsky, whose intuition to step back and let Rourke's acting and Siegel's writing flex their muscles is a model of restraint. His movie, set in the unremarkable city of Elizabeth, NJ, plays like the tragic memoirs of a dying king. He opens it with a credit sequence that's bursting with '80s nostalgia, from the tacky wrestling propaganda posters to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle font. When we meet Randy in present day, he's in his weather-worn 40s, and he's gearing up for a wrestling match in a...high school gym. Such humdrum gigs are the only ones he can land nowadays and, since he apparently lacks any other skills, the poor demand is taking its toll on his wallet. He's been evicted from his trailer for failure to pay rent; he's got a part-time deli job that's more appropriate for a college freshman; and he can barely afford to maintain his image via tanning, steroids, weightlifting, and bleaching his shoulder-length, rock star mane. Oh yeah, and he's got a daughter who he hasn't seen in years and to whom he surely isn't sending monthly checks.

But he has wrestling. Aronofsky and Siegel do an incredible job of illustrating the world of performance fighters with documentary-style fascination, exposing the behind-the-scenes choreography and the lengths to which these guys will go to put on a good show (Randy keeps a razor blade stashed under his wrist tape so he can create real blood effects – a.k.a., cut himself). Whether or not everything that's depicted is accurate is up for debate, but it certainly got my attention. There's something very raw and true about sports that take place within a ring, which is probably why the movies about them are the greatest sports films of all time. Caught inside that roped-in square, under blinding spotlights before a screaming crowd, is humanity at its most animalistic – bloody, sweaty, carnal, and vulnerable. It's powerful enough to make stories about baseball seem childish in comparison. In this tradition, “The Wrestler” stands among classics like “Rocky” and “Raging Bull.” In a more literary sense, it resembles immortal works like “Oedipus” or “Death of a Salesman.” Randy is like the Willy Loman of pro wrestling, refusing to let go of unreachable dreams while the rest of his life crumbles around him. A sudden heart attack after a particularly gruesome match brings him a much-needed moment of reflection, and it brings the movie a perfectly-timed opportunity for greater depth.


The incident allows Aronofsky to shift “The Wrestler” into a lower gear, inviting in two additional characters to colorize his dark palette. Marisa Tomei, an actress who seems to get better with every film, plays Pam, a local stripper and single mother whose alias, “Cassidy,” isn't the only falsehood she uses for self-defense. Evan Rachel Wood, an actress who's bound to mature one of these days, plays Randy's estranged daughter, Stephanie. For better or worse, the two women awaken things in Randy that were long buried beneath his blind ambition and delusions of grandeur. Particularly, the relationship he forms with Pam reminds him (and her) how to live life as it happens, and the exchanges between the actors are highly realistic and quietly tender (watch for a brief scene inside a bar where the two bond while reminiscing and the whole world seems to fall away). Tomei convinces you that Pam is a living, breathing, struggling person and her ingenuous skills are well suited to the material. Wood exhibits growth as a performer but still has a long way to go; her turn is a bit noisy even for a noisily written character, and it's all the more conspicuous in a film that's as notable for its subtleties as it is for its brutality. Rourke remains the main event throughout, clawing his way through scenes like a world-weary grizzly bear. His indelible performance is layered with laughs, tears, truths, and surprises, and he keeps you hooked right up to the film's decidedly unsentimental final moment.

“The Wrestler,” admittedly, is not for everyone. Squeamish viewers and those who like their movies nice and pretty are better suited for a date with “Benjamin Button.” But in the pursuit of great drama, passing by this carefully nurtured gem would be a big mistake. Similar to the bar scene with Randy and Pam, it wraps you up in its gripping story until the rest of the world falls away. Aronofsky, who won the Golden Lion for Best Director at 2008's Venice Film Festival, and Rourke, who's collected a slew of critics' awards and nominations, both deliver career-best work, collaborating on a project that's the cinematic equivalent of a body slam.