The Wrestler (2008)

Here's the review at Big Hollywood. Sounds like the ending is a real shame:

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Review: The Wrestler
by John Nolte

Director Darren Aronofsky’s stark look at the subculture of low-level professional wrestling builds to an impressive and ambitious character study that looks to be equal parts Requiem For A Heavyweight (1962) and The Set-Up (1949) before a predictable, cliched, cop-out of a climax unravels what had been so compelling into something more akin to What Price Narcissism?

Mickey Rourke summons a career performance as Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a washed up WWF-style wrestler who refuses to let go of his nearly extinguished celebrity even though his superstar days were left well behind decades ago in the era of spandex, big hair, and heavy metal anthems. With his long, stringy, bleached hair, artificial tan, and steroid-abused body, Robinson’s a hulking, grotesque monster of a man willing to suffer whatever it takes for another round of love from the crowd.

What he suffers most, however, are relentless humiliations, both big and small. Throughout New Jersey, Robinson spills blood in any seedy, makeshift gymnasium the circuit sets up. No matter how small the venue, though, the crowds still don’t reach capacity and he isn’t able to make even enough money to cover the rent on a depressing single-wide trailer he calls home. To supplement his income, Robinson deals in the drugs of his profession and unloads grocery trucks for a cruel, little man who lives to ridicule him.

Lonely and lost outside the ring, the faded superstar turns to Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), a fortyish stripper who for sixty bucks gives him something he needs even more than a topless lap dance, a few moments of gentle, human tenderness. Though it remains unspoken between them, both know few others can relate to life as aging performance-meat, with time running out and no future in sight.

After a particularly bloody and sadistic bout involving a staple gun and razor wire, Robinson wisely takes a doctor’s advice, retires, and goes about the business of building a normal life. He takes full-time hours at the grocery store, let’s Cassidy know how he feels about her, and after too many years reaches out to his estranged, college-aged daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood), whom he abandoned for fame when she was still a child.

The Wrestler has at least a dozen exceptional scenes that rank as the best of the year, all beautifully acted, shot and directed - especially those detailing the grim routine of Robinson’s life. The way in which Robinson and Cassidy find a way to connect through a shared loathing of 90’s music, and Robinson’s first day behind the deli counter are unforgettable and alone worth the price of admission.

What grinds The Wrestler up are the demands of a three-act plot structure and the unimaginative and rote way in which those demands are satisfied. What was subtle goes melodrama. What was real becomes contrived. And instead of a film that had a life force of its own, you feel the gears turn as characters betray everything we know about them in order to create necessary crisis points.

But other than Rourke’s moments, including an affecting confession and apology, there is no point where the father/daughter subplot is either subtle or real. Every imaginable cliche involving an embittered, angry daughter hurt by her loser father gets a hearing. And rather than try to rise above her tired scenes, Evan Rachel Wood seems dedicated to making obvious performance choices.

Which brings me to how the film ends. Without giving anything away, let’s just say that Aronofsky and screenwriter, Robert D. Siegel, take the road most travelled. The choice itself is bad enough but to have a character make a long speech to explain it is insult on top of injury. A hundred minutes spent laying down themes and developing a complicated and compelling character we very much sympathize with, and rather than take the time to craft the compelling and complicated fate he deserved, we get … this.

Every hopeful, painful moment of Requiem For A Heavyweight comes down to the exquisite, tragic site of Louis “Mountain” Rivera (Anthony Quinn) humiliated as a stunt performer whooping around the ring wearing Indian feathers. Juxtapose that with Robert Ryan’s Stoker, who takes a crippling beating but walks away with his chin up, the past behind him and the girl he loves on his arm.

Tragic, bittersweet, inspirational…

How the film ends isn’t up to me. But to strip away the heavy emotional investment made into this character and have me walk out not giving a damn about him isn’t about which fate’s the filmmaker chose, it’s about the execution of that fate.

The Ram deserved better.

Posted Jan 15th 2009 at 7:55 am

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