And yet strangely enough, these theatrics take place with greater sanctity at the other end of the cultural spectrum: the opera house. Consider Siegfried or Aida. Where else will you find protagonists bedecked in capes and masks, eager to stimulate the audience by means of vocal pyrotechnics? In opera, love and brutality are borne by human voices raised to an extreme register. Pro-wrestling effects a similar drama by putting bare bodies on center stage and inciting them to attack each other with choreographed rage. Neither medium falls short on hyperbole, and both rely on the celebrity of 250lb performers.
Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler has elements of the operatic about it. It's a film with a virtuoso performance at its center, and it relays its protagonist's decline as a single - but universally applicable - instance of everyday human tragedy. I wouldn't call it brilliant cinematic fare, but it's worth viewing simply because it's carried by extraordinary acting on the part of Mickey Rourke and his two female counterparts.
As with Rourke himself, Randy The Ram's career peak takes place offstage, in the past. The movie opens with a montage of newspaper cuttings, audio clips and autographed paraphenalia that collectively represent The Ram in his prime. The music is pure '80s, laced with hair-metal bands of the Def Leppard and Quiet Riot extraction. I loved it. But Aronofsky has a point to make: tempus fugit...whatever the songs said, 1986 didn't last forever.
Instead it's 2006 and Randy's on the local circuit with 20 years of battering and drinking to bear. Aronofsky draws a pointed contrast to the power shots of the opening credits, making us wait to see Randy's face. He rests the camera at eye-level, tracking behind Randy as he walks out of his trailer and gets to dressing room, acquaintances and admirers coming up to clap him on the arm. There's no Citizen Kane-like projection here; the camera is handheld and hovers at Randy's shoulder for most of the movie. It's as though the body, which we later witness in its sturdy but bruised state, has ceased to matter: Randy's face - Mickey Rourke's, inescapably - is our ground zero.
As with Rourke himself, Randy The Ram's career peak takes place offstage, in the past. The movie opens with a montage of newspaper cuttings, audio clips and autographed paraphenalia that collectively represent The Ram in his prime. The music is pure '80s, laced with hair-metal bands of the Def Leppard and Quiet Riot extraction. I loved it. But Aronofsky has a point to make: tempus fugit...whatever the songs said, 1986 didn't last forever.
Instead it's 2006 and Randy's on the local circuit with 20 years of battering and drinking to bear. Aronofsky draws a pointed contrast to the power shots of the opening credits, making us wait to see Randy's face. He rests the camera at eye-level, tracking behind Randy as he walks out of his trailer and gets to dressing room, acquaintances and admirers coming up to clap him on the arm. There's no Citizen Kane-like projection here; the camera is handheld and hovers at Randy's shoulder for most of the movie. It's as though the body, which we later witness in its sturdy but bruised state, has ceased to matter: Randy's face - Mickey Rourke's, inescapably - is our ground zero.
There's something about this face. The features aren't beautifully arranged and the skin has all the suppleness of worn leather. But it's also a majestic face - the face of a haggard Achilles, of everyman, a face with which I fell into depthless empathy.
This empathy stayed alive throughout the movie, even as Randy took hits of cocaine and racked up $900 in steroids, even as a one night stand left him sleeping past the dinner plans he worked so hard to earn from his estranged daughter (Stephanie). I felt for him as he tried to step away from his former self by flirting with a local stripper and taking Stephanie to Asbury Park. Whatever his faults, Randy tries hard and does it with a smile. He plays pater familias to younger wrestlers who look to him for tips and a gentle boost of confidence. He buys Stephanie a peacoat and stands up to dance in an empty bar when a favorite song comes on the radio. He gets locked out of his trailer for failing on rent, and then takes a shift at the supermarket in order get back in. He trips up constantly, but tries so hard not to that you ache for him to get even one break.
At the end of the day, however, Randy is a demigod only in the ring, and it's there that he feels most alive--there too that he'll meet his end. It's a saccharine plot-twist, but even though The Ram has a weak heart that's going to give out soon, what keeps him coming back is the purity of his purpose. Like a good '80s song, despite the drugs, sex and lethal blows, you still have to believe this guy is all heart.
This empathy stayed alive throughout the movie, even as Randy took hits of cocaine and racked up $900 in steroids, even as a one night stand left him sleeping past the dinner plans he worked so hard to earn from his estranged daughter (Stephanie). I felt for him as he tried to step away from his former self by flirting with a local stripper and taking Stephanie to Asbury Park. Whatever his faults, Randy tries hard and does it with a smile. He plays pater familias to younger wrestlers who look to him for tips and a gentle boost of confidence. He buys Stephanie a peacoat and stands up to dance in an empty bar when a favorite song comes on the radio. He gets locked out of his trailer for failing on rent, and then takes a shift at the supermarket in order get back in. He trips up constantly, but tries so hard not to that you ache for him to get even one break.
At the end of the day, however, Randy is a demigod only in the ring, and it's there that he feels most alive--there too that he'll meet his end. It's a saccharine plot-twist, but even though The Ram has a weak heart that's going to give out soon, what keeps him coming back is the purity of his purpose. Like a good '80s song, despite the drugs, sex and lethal blows, you still have to believe this guy is all heart.
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