The Wrestler

On paper it’s a simple brilliant idea. Two hardcore Hollywood hold-outs team up for that perennially popular, commercially sound movie trope, the broken-down wrestler. In the red corner we find director Darren Aranofsky, the master mindbender behind Pi, Requiem For A Dream and The Fountain. For him, this is a change of pace, a straightforward mainstream film in three acts that, in stark contrast to his fantastic earlier films, does not stretch from the Conquistadors to the end of the universe or feature mathematically minded Kabbalists.
His tag-team companion is Mickey Rourke, once Tinseltown’s brightest star, but long since gone nova. For him, this is, at last, a job. True, he’s had mini-comebacks in Spun and Sin City before now. But even during his heyday, that purple patch between Rumblefish and Angel Heart, Mr. Rourke was never given an opportunity to shine like he is given here. And shine he does.
There can be little doubt that part of the appeal of this gritty fairytale is extra-textual, that the parallels between the lives of The Wrestler and the actor who plays him bring a rare poignancy. Out titular hero, Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, we quickly learn, was a headlining man in tights and an action figure during the ‘80s. Now, he’s reduced to playing community halls at weekends. He pines for his estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) but after years of abandonment, his visits only inspire her angry, bitter tears. He finds some solace in a stripper-with-a-heart-of-gold (Marisa Tomei) but his rut seems absolute and the climb back is going to be a treacherous one.
The plot is Rocky with a twist. The lightly comic details of Randy’s environs – the razorblade he uses to produce self-inflicted ‘special effects’ in the ring, the collection of home tapes in his trailer – could well be put in the service of a Will Ferrell sports comedy. And yet, for all the familiarity, Aronofsky has produced and edgy, moody film, a snarling, existential companion piece for Mean Streets or On The Waterfront. This is not just a simple, brilliant idea. This is that rarest of things, a profound entertainment.
The real honours, however, ultimately fall to Aranofsky’s muse who is tangled up in the narrative like it’s a car crash. His body, damaged and distorted from years of abuse and boxing, practically deserves its own billing. Mr Rourke plays Randy accordingly, like a bloodied, trembling hunk of meat. It’s the greatest performance of his career and he may well beat off stiff competition from Sean Penn (Milk) and Clint Eastwood (Gran Torino) to the podium come Oscar night. How’s that for a Rocky ending?