Tuesday, Feb. 10, 2009

'The Wrestler' succeeds with sad tale

By Edward Robertson, atomictown.com

Once in a bar (man, I wish I had a story that didn't start that way), I expressed to the girls we were with that if I had the money, I'd retire then and there.

To my shock, they were shocked! It was as if wanting to permanently quit working somehow made me childish and lazy. Bafflingly, I never heard from them again, which gave me plenty of time to decide I was right after all. Imagine: waking each day to realize you've been asleep three days, the joy of exchanging your boring old teeth for steel-plated dentures, the serene comfort in knowing that, some day soon, everyone you've always hated will either be dead or as old and saggy as you.

But after watching Mickey Rourke struggle with retirement in The Wrestler, I think those girls were right, and if they weren't doubtlessly all buried or senile by now, I'd tell them so. That's biological existence for you. Just when you realize that walking sack of organic compounds over there was on to something, it's gone and decomposed into a pile of something that's a terrible conversationist.

Twenty years ago, Mickey Rourke's character -- Randy "The Ram" Robinson -- was the name in wrestling, a man whose fights drew 20,000 fans. These days he's wearing down, weekend venues pulling two or three hundred; he's locked out of his trailer for nonpayment, working weekdays in a grocery store to get by.

Rourke's promoter wants to arrange an anniversary rematch of his biggest fight, but then Rourke's knocked down by a heart attack. His doctor tells him to retire. Lonely and adrift, he tries to connect to Marisa Tomei, a stripper he goes way back with. Her advice: get back in touch with the daughter he's ignored all his life.

Easy said, harder done. Without wrestling, Rourke's life may be over.

As you can see, The Wrestler is the most uplifting story since you found your ex's name in the obituaries. But while it's got its grim moments -- more than anything, it feels exhausted, as beat down and quietly desperate as Rourke himself -- director Darren Aronofsky establishes an understated, ground-level tone that downplays both the sadness and the successes of Rourke's life.

It's a part that fits Rourke as tight as his Spandex. For whatever reason, he only gets hauled out of the meat locker every 3-4 years -- maybe he spends his off time tunneling through mountains with his iron-hard face -- and here, as usual, he's outstanding. Really, he's playing two parts: showy hero when he's in the ring, just another loser when he's out of it.

But some of The Wrestler's best moments are the ones in between, the routine, almost embarrassing details Rourke has to put himself through to prep for the big spectacle: fake tans, dying his roots, injecting steroids into his old ass, roughing out the fight's choreography with his opponent before they start whaling on each other. Someone less talented than Aronofsky -- "hacks," we call them, or occasionally "Michael Bay" -- would mine this stuff for cheap laughs rather than letting it speak for itself.

The director's judgment is reserved when it comes to his characters, too. It's a damn good thing; as far as cliches go, "has-been trying to make good on his screwed-up life" and "lady who gets naked for money but is actually more like a saint than a whore" are older than the Pyramids. (But younger than Mount Rushmore. Don't swallow the Freemasons' lies.)

When we're not perpetually told how to feel about Rourke and Tomei, all we're left to go on are their actions. Some are noble, some are stupid, most are as confused and compromised as the ones we make in real life. Despite its melancholy, The Wrestler ends strangely triumphant, a howl against ever settling for less than you need.

Grade: A