The Wrestler

In my short history of blogging, I’ve never come across a movie so difficult to review. I’m self-conscious because I can’t possibly, in a few words, heap the kind of praise of which this film is worthy without seeming insincere; a Will Ferrell as James Lipton, praise-showering phony.

In previous reviews, I’ve admired Daniel Day-Lewis for his amazing technique, George Clooney for his unlikely vulnerability, and I’ve admired Christian Bale, among others, for his willingness to transform physically for a role. All skills that, when employed in the right movie, can make for a great performance. Here, Mickey Rourke has managed to pull-off ALL THREE qualities, and with The Wrestler has given a portrayal for the ages. Not to mention that he’s Mickey Rourke, so he comes to the table with all kinds of baggage, and we come to the theater with all kinds expectations of who we think he is. But he embodies his character so completely that he tears down all those expectations and redefines himself as an actor. See?? Now it seems like I’m trying to sound important.

Marisa Tomei is the Wrestler’s emotional counterpart. She also gives the performance of a lifetime as, believe it or not, the stripper with a heart of gold. Like him, she’s heartbreakingly vulnerable as she struggles in a career that prioritizes youth, and for her audience of young men, she pretends to be something she is not.

The Wrestler is unlike any of Aronofsky’s other movies. With screenwriter Robert D. Siegel, they’ve paid loving homage to the touchstone sports metaphors: Rocky, Raging Bull, and even a little bit of The Champ. It’s devastatingly sad, but the tone modulates well, making small victories all the more poignant. There’s enough here to make a grown man cry. Ten-fold. It makes me wonder where Mickey Rourke has been all this time. (Sin City, I guess.) But then again, perhaps everything he’s done up until now has led him to this movie, the one for which he’ll be remembered forever.