The Wrestler, my sister and I
I went to see The Wrestler with my sister on a senior discount Wednesday. I had wanted to see it because I had read good things about Mickey Rourke’s performance. When we first saw the trailer a few weeks ago, my sister said she absolutely didn’t want to go to this one. The subject matter didn’t interest her and she finds Rourke obnoxious. Then she changed her mind because she had heard much about Rourke’s acting comeback here and because she’s a fan of Marisa Tomei, and because I always treat.
I am not any sort of fan of wrestling, and have been to only one professional show in my life, a Ring of Honor event such as the one that brings to an end the movie and, it appears, Randy’s life. I find the ritualistic insanity and codified quasi-gladiatorial violence of the self-described sport to be laughable at best, idiotic at worst. Others like it; more power to them, but my nature is inclined more toward the talents of James Levine and the BSO than Chris Jericho and WWE, though I imagine a planet in which one can love both.
And anyhow, the film isn’t really about wrestling. It is about a troubled man, a washed-out middle aged wrestler having pains coming to grips with his life, his failures as a husband and father, reality itself. It’s a personal tragedy, really. And a moving one. You care about this guy.
Rourke is an overwhelming icon here as Randy "The Ram" Robinson, his body and persona molded in a transformational way that I have rarely seen on the screen, certainly not since Bobby De Niro as the fat, aging Jake La Motta in Scorsese’s Raging Bull. He’s up for an Academy Award, deserves it, and may very well get it.
So the film merits major attention, because of the enormous force Mickey Rourke has endowed this role. Oh, and I am belatedly adding it to my best films of 2008 list.
I am not any sort of fan of wrestling, and have been to only one professional show in my life, a Ring of Honor event such as the one that brings to an end the movie and, it appears, Randy’s life. I find the ritualistic insanity and codified quasi-gladiatorial violence of the self-described sport to be laughable at best, idiotic at worst. Others like it; more power to them, but my nature is inclined more toward the talents of James Levine and the BSO than Chris Jericho and WWE, though I imagine a planet in which one can love both.
And anyhow, the film isn’t really about wrestling. It is about a troubled man, a washed-out middle aged wrestler having pains coming to grips with his life, his failures as a husband and father, reality itself. It’s a personal tragedy, really. And a moving one. You care about this guy.
Rourke is an overwhelming icon here as Randy "The Ram" Robinson, his body and persona molded in a transformational way that I have rarely seen on the screen, certainly not since Bobby De Niro as the fat, aging Jake La Motta in Scorsese’s Raging Bull. He’s up for an Academy Award, deserves it, and may very well get it.
So the film merits major attention, because of the enormous force Mickey Rourke has endowed this role. Oh, and I am belatedly adding it to my best films of 2008 list.