‘Tis the season for Oscar-bait. Fear not. This lumbering, empty breed are easily spotted. They hail from royal blood. Perhaps, a Coen, Mendes, or Haggis. They boast impressive performances, usually from ensemble casts or faded stars, and - above all else - they’re art. So when a film comes along sending out all the signals, caution is advised. Fortunately, The Wrestler passes inspection.
Robin Ramzinski (Mickey Rourke) is a wrestling legend eking out a meagre existence working retail in small town New Jersey. Randy, as he prefers to be called, is living a charmed life. His best days are long gone. The Ram’s a walking cauliflower ear, wearing every cut and bruise as rightful badges of honour. Every weekend, he goes back for more, tangling like an 18 year old trapped in his father’s aching frame. With a good 20 years on his peers, he just keeps going. Like all good Hollywood Men, it’s all he knows how to do.
So far, so familiar, yes? There’s more. Outside the ring, our protagonist is alone. All he has left are memories of former glory, an estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood), and a tentative friendship with Cassidy (the excellent Marisa Tomei), a local stripper.
From the outside, it’s easy to write off The Wrestler. The story is, well, storied. Every beat is safe and familiar. Movies like this fly or die on the strength of their particulars. Good thing Darren Aronofsky does details like Debbie does Dallas. The jittery, hand-held visuals get you there, whether lending vital immediacy mid-grapple (bright lights and brighter tights sparkle) or bringing the gloom of Randy’s Spartan day-to-day alive. This proves vital, when the gentle pace remains steady during the middle third. Dialogue is excellent. Seldom does a script, especially for a largely low-key drama - feel so natural and easy.
Despite fine work from Wood, Tomei's performance shines second brightest. When, in a very Knocked Up juxtaposition, Cassidy and Randy's paths converge, she lends the role a weight uncommon in leading ladies.
For all its flair, The Wrestler could stand to ratchet up the drama. Even when Randy vomits painfully, post-show, and winds up in hospital, the danger never grips like it should. Heart-attacks are serious business and Randy “giving up” his trade on Doctor’s advice pushes the emote button, but it’s not all bad. He’s lived it, made it to the top of the ropes and looked down; it’s a price he’s happy to pay. His straits aren’t poverty-dire. At worst, he’ll carry on working the deli counter ‘til his heart finally gives in. Hardly a finale fit for “The Ram”, but it could be worse.
Aronofsky defies conventional, William Goldman thinking. His relaxed approach to tension doesn’t hurt the film so much as it highlights a weak-spot. Every limping on-screen warrior needn’t live constantly on death’s door. It would surely have been a less involving beast had Randy been forced to go back into the ring rather than choose to, but then, we wouldn’t have a prestige picture on our hands, would we?
How you’ll feel walking out of this one depends on how much you’ve heard before going in. It’s a confident, well-crafted film, no question. Mickey Rourke is sublime, and not everything about the ending is paint by numbers. That said, it’s less the transcendent masterwork you’ve heard about than a very good keep believin’ yarn.
Watch it: because you know it makes sense.
Don’t watch it: ‘cos Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 is starting in 5 minutes and that’s, like, totally better.
Rank: Lieutenant (7/10.)
--
Ian Pratt has no beef with Traveling Pants or their related Sisterhood. He just doesn't like to see Alexis Bledel's considerable charms taken up with middling fare.
Showing posts with label Alexis Bledel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alexis Bledel. Show all posts
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Saturday, 13 December 2008
1: Of 'Gilmore Girls' and Boring Boys
'Gilmore Girls' jumped me. It was sometime between the return of Premiership Football and the death of summer, and it was via e4. I wasn’t impressed: a preternaturally happy woman and her Sin City hooker daughter getting into faux-crises in their idyllic New England town? Where’s the drama, I thought? Who’s watching this show?
Robert McKee had me seeing red. This show typified what aspiring screenwriters are told not to do. The stakes - if they can be called that - were so small that, at best, they would be ineligible for all but the tamest of roller-coasters and, at worst, were subterranean. Example: someone has to get home immediately… to feed her dog! (Yeah, I know.) Scenes drifted off aimlessly on a myriad of tangents, until a belated joke reminded someone what the point was and the ship righted itself. Everyone knows small-town life runs at its own pace, but these girls were extracting the Michael.
Seeing the titular girls till all-too-familiar relationship ground was tantamount to eavesdropping on the “quiet girls” in school, but with added shame. It’s disappointing: the participants talk endlessly and say nothing. But worse, they say nothing about you. You don’t exist. In fact, nothing exists for these girls beyond their own myopic reflections (of which there are many) and complaints about their latest lover/ex lover. It was almost enough to make a guy brave “event TV.”
After watching the depiction of men in 'Gilmore Girls', I finally understood women’s frustration at their portrayal on screen. Male characters on the show only came off well when serving as harmless supporting Eunuchs (Kirk, Taylor…) Otherwise, they consistently disrupted female happiness by way of their masculinity’s incompatibility with female logic. If a male lover disagreed with his spouse on something, he was talked down to or vilified for immaturity (witness Rory slamming Logan’s Life and Death Brigade antics) or just getting in the way (Luke delaying he and Lorelai’s wedding, T.J. being T.J.)
There’s more to this than just fighting one’s corner. I wouldn’t want to defend most of the men I’ve encountered, and certainly not just because I am one. To me, the predictable men of 'Gilmore Girls' highlighted a massive double-standard. If, indeed, women deplore men routinely desiring mundanely gorgeous partners, then men can only follow suit. Any man on this show outside the ‘tall, dark, handsome’ or ‘boyishly dashing’ moulds was, simply, screwed. Ironically, only his friends who fitted either of these bills would ever screw by design. Luke, Logan, Chris, et al all substantiated this. Interestingly, women outside the traditional range of heterosexual male desire (anyone not in the top 30 places of this year’s FHM 100 sexiest list) still got someone to come home to. Sookie and Jackson anyone? Or (the attractive but “unglamorous”) Lane and Zack? Or (the attractive but highly strung) Paris and Doyle?
Weeks passed.
Maybe it was the lack of competition, but eventually my defences began to lower. I kept watching. Cracks began to appear in my hastily formed objection faster than a Manchester City title challenge. Sure, these chicks were a bit yappy, but their moxie became more and more endearing. Suddenly, I adjusted to the warp-factor chatting, finding it a welcome break from the drudgery found elsewhere in televised suburbia. I became involved with these people’s relationships, to the extent where shake-ups and break-downs solicited discussions with the TV (though Logan remains painfully smug.) The inimitable use of music (Half Alien rock) added another notch to the list of the show’s unique facets. Soon, the prospect of a programme low on “action” became a borderline necessity.
Where once there was McKee (or, rather, the image of Brian Cox’s McKee from Adaptation), there was only me, the same wide-eyed chancer who used to write about friends without the constraints of monotonous plot-acceleration and perfunctory turning points. My Dave Eggers side body-slammed my White Van Man side. So what if these ladies didn’t always get up to much? Save the pantomime protagonists from 'Heroes' and its ilk, who does? These girls entertain me more having dinner with their family than Jack Bauer would tackling a dozen Villains of the Week. Theirs was a series that brought something new to the table. Sure, we’ve all watched shows that tackle everyday minutiae (I believe, they’re called ‘soaps’), but ‘Gilmore Girls’ reclaimed this terrain, proving that a drama can do kitchen sink without descending into an East-End screaming match. How? By understanding the glaringly simple truth that there aren’t really any new stories, only new perspectives. Now more than ever, what better reason could there be to (re)visit Star’s Hollow?
Those fabulous Gilmore Girls were talking to me all along. I just wasn’t listening.
--
Ian Pratt may slate ‘Heroes’, but he’ll always love Milo Ventimiglia for his work on that show about those two girls who like to talk fast ‘cos life’s short.
Robert McKee had me seeing red. This show typified what aspiring screenwriters are told not to do. The stakes - if they can be called that - were so small that, at best, they would be ineligible for all but the tamest of roller-coasters and, at worst, were subterranean. Example: someone has to get home immediately… to feed her dog! (Yeah, I know.) Scenes drifted off aimlessly on a myriad of tangents, until a belated joke reminded someone what the point was and the ship righted itself. Everyone knows small-town life runs at its own pace, but these girls were extracting the Michael.
Seeing the titular girls till all-too-familiar relationship ground was tantamount to eavesdropping on the “quiet girls” in school, but with added shame. It’s disappointing: the participants talk endlessly and say nothing. But worse, they say nothing about you. You don’t exist. In fact, nothing exists for these girls beyond their own myopic reflections (of which there are many) and complaints about their latest lover/ex lover. It was almost enough to make a guy brave “event TV.”
After watching the depiction of men in 'Gilmore Girls', I finally understood women’s frustration at their portrayal on screen. Male characters on the show only came off well when serving as harmless supporting Eunuchs (Kirk, Taylor…) Otherwise, they consistently disrupted female happiness by way of their masculinity’s incompatibility with female logic. If a male lover disagreed with his spouse on something, he was talked down to or vilified for immaturity (witness Rory slamming Logan’s Life and Death Brigade antics) or just getting in the way (Luke delaying he and Lorelai’s wedding, T.J. being T.J.)
There’s more to this than just fighting one’s corner. I wouldn’t want to defend most of the men I’ve encountered, and certainly not just because I am one. To me, the predictable men of 'Gilmore Girls' highlighted a massive double-standard. If, indeed, women deplore men routinely desiring mundanely gorgeous partners, then men can only follow suit. Any man on this show outside the ‘tall, dark, handsome’ or ‘boyishly dashing’ moulds was, simply, screwed. Ironically, only his friends who fitted either of these bills would ever screw by design. Luke, Logan, Chris, et al all substantiated this. Interestingly, women outside the traditional range of heterosexual male desire (anyone not in the top 30 places of this year’s FHM 100 sexiest list) still got someone to come home to. Sookie and Jackson anyone? Or (the attractive but “unglamorous”) Lane and Zack? Or (the attractive but highly strung) Paris and Doyle?
Weeks passed.
Maybe it was the lack of competition, but eventually my defences began to lower. I kept watching. Cracks began to appear in my hastily formed objection faster than a Manchester City title challenge. Sure, these chicks were a bit yappy, but their moxie became more and more endearing. Suddenly, I adjusted to the warp-factor chatting, finding it a welcome break from the drudgery found elsewhere in televised suburbia. I became involved with these people’s relationships, to the extent where shake-ups and break-downs solicited discussions with the TV (though Logan remains painfully smug.) The inimitable use of music (Half Alien rock) added another notch to the list of the show’s unique facets. Soon, the prospect of a programme low on “action” became a borderline necessity.
Where once there was McKee (or, rather, the image of Brian Cox’s McKee from Adaptation), there was only me, the same wide-eyed chancer who used to write about friends without the constraints of monotonous plot-acceleration and perfunctory turning points. My Dave Eggers side body-slammed my White Van Man side. So what if these ladies didn’t always get up to much? Save the pantomime protagonists from 'Heroes' and its ilk, who does? These girls entertain me more having dinner with their family than Jack Bauer would tackling a dozen Villains of the Week. Theirs was a series that brought something new to the table. Sure, we’ve all watched shows that tackle everyday minutiae (I believe, they’re called ‘soaps’), but ‘Gilmore Girls’ reclaimed this terrain, proving that a drama can do kitchen sink without descending into an East-End screaming match. How? By understanding the glaringly simple truth that there aren’t really any new stories, only new perspectives. Now more than ever, what better reason could there be to (re)visit Star’s Hollow?
Those fabulous Gilmore Girls were talking to me all along. I just wasn’t listening.
--
Ian Pratt may slate ‘Heroes’, but he’ll always love Milo Ventimiglia for his work on that show about those two girls who like to talk fast ‘cos life’s short.
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