The Return of Rourke: The Wrestler

David Begelman

The hero of Darren Aronofsky’s new film The Wrestler may be a big-time loser in life, but at least he has a gift for alliteration. He is Robin Ramzinski, otherwise known in the second-rate wrestling circuit as Randy “The Ram” Robinson. He is also modest about his moniker in informal settings, whatever else his character flaws. When passers-by recognize him as The Ram, he politely insists they should call him just plain Randy, one of the crowd.

The problem with The Wrestler is that we tend to confuse its central character with what we know about the actor who is a natural for the role. He secured it without the endless lucubrations of production offices about who should get the plum gig. Who could it have possibly been, other than Mickey Rourke? He’s an actor whose personal life was more than faintly reminiscent of the character he plays. A shoe-in for the role.

The downside of the casting is that you’re never sure whether your appreciation of the character is based upon Mickey doing a gorgeously crafted Randy, or a Randy who is a natural carve-out from what Mickey already brings to the table.

Be that as it may, The Wrestler is quite a comeback for the actor, after self-professed downbeat years as a wastrel and failed boxer, not to mention a career on a diminuendo from Diner, Rumblefish, the underrated Angel Heart, even the gratuitous Wild Orchid and Sin City. No one could be more like Randy than Mickey. Robert Downey, Jr., who is an exceptional acting talent, doesn’t even come close. So much for tributes.

Robert D. Siegel’s script for the film, has a plodding, predictable aspect to it, and you wait breathlessly to see something shine through the lives of characters who, like Randy, not only never seem to be able to brighten things up, they seem decidedly intent on making sure the downhill course of their lives is unwavering.

Randy goes from one life disappointment to another. He’s constantly locked out of his trailer by his landlord for non-payment of rent, exists fearlessly on a diet of steroids and opiates, and tends to a body battered in the second-string wrestling circuit. There, efforts to please crowds take the form of bouts in which combatants use staple guns, glass, and barbed wire on each other to titillate the audiences watching the matches. Randy’s daughter, Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood) is permanently alienated from him, while he seems bent on falling on his face trying to get into the life of a stripper (Marisa Tomei), whose maternal loyalty to her son blocks her commitment to the wrestler. When she is finally ready to take the plunge for him, it is too late. But lateness is a silent mantra for all the characters in this film; it always too late for them.

Sunny times in The Wrestler are pretty much confined to the camaraderie between Randy and his fellow athletes, like the towering Ayatollah (Ernest Miller), who owns an Arizona car dealership in order to make ends meet. Many actors in the film are real wrestlers recruited for like-minded roles. The contests in the phony sport are only pre-choreographed bouts of athletes who whisper instructions to each other while bodies are shoved, slammed, or lacerated mercilessly. Spectators, who also know the bloody contests are make-believe, scream with delight at ringside over the antics, before the wrestlers repair to locker rooms to tend to contrived injuries.

Randy’s life is a stumblebum affair. He’s more pathetic than heroic, and the moviegoer is hard-pressed to see signs in the script of any real dramatic conflict. There’s a lot of body slamming, alienation, self-abuse, and all around unhappiness but where, in the last analysis, does The Wrestler go, other than providing the opportunity for a performer everyone assumed was a has-been to do an arresting characterization?

Director Aronofsky’s camera is overly addicted to close-ups, whether following Randy from behind, or focusing in on his ravaged body and countenance.

The women in The Wrestler are another story. Marisa Tomei as Cassidy, a woman who works in a tawdry strip-bar, does several pole-dance numbers that could be classified as soft porn from a mile away. But what is the point of it all, especially when viewing a seasoned and academy award-winning actress on nude display is a tad on the embarrassing side—especially when the camera work in her numbers adds virtually nothing to the narrative line of the film?

Evan Rachel Wood as Stephanie, Randy’s daughter, is the real surprise in this film, and her transitions from furiously rejecting her father’s attempts to get back into her life from absenteeism to softening her attitude were for this reviewer a highlight of The Wrestler. Of course, our hero, ever watchful for opportunities to screw things up, sleeps through a date with her, leaving her waiting for two hours in a restaurant.

Randy has a heart attack mid-film, leading to a bypass operation. His cardiologist informs him that because of his condition, he has to put his wrestling days behind him. Just the cue he needs to fall on his face again—this time terminally. But you could see that coming from not one, but ten miles away. Bruce Springsteen sings a terrific number while credits are rolling by, so the moviegoer can feel optimistic about something.