The Wrestler is a very vivid, visceral film. Plot wise, it follows the Rockyesque rise and fall so common to American mythology. The muscled screwup with a heart of gold who just wants to make good once again. The American dream- so unattainable, so powerful.
The movie starts out following Rourke (Randy the Ram), a has-been wrestler. But it makes its initial impression through the shaky hand held camera, the grainy film and the avoidance of Rourke's clay like broken down face. The camera follows behind him or over his shoulder, so that the viewer doesn't have to look straight in the face of destruction. I could barely watch parts of this movie. The wrestling matches were deliberately violent and almost gross- like they wanted the viewer to cower and cover their eyes. Or maybe that's just me- I'm not a fan of watching someone get hit with two by fours or sheets of glass. Rourke had this struggling breath and moved with such plodding pain. I left the theater feeling constricted, tight.
The gender relations of the film were alternately cliched and moving, due only to the caliber of actors picked to play these stale parts. Marisa Tomei managed to breath some life into the character of the fading, tired old stripper, the Mary Magdalene to Rachel Evan Wood's Virgin daughter. In the end, the Ram fails his daughter once again and the stripper's support isn't enough to convince him to give up the glittery, spandex sporting glory of wrestling for a "real" life. There are some interesting parallels to be drawn between the stripper on the stage dancing around the pole and the wrestler in the wring parading his steroid induced muscles for the same audience of boisterous male voyeurs. Both characters were debating how long they could sell their bodies and what it cost them. And don't get me started on the comparisons between Jesus and Randy the Ram. Ay caramba!
No comments:
Post a Comment