Before I Forget—a French film written and directed by Jacques Nolot (who also starred in it) was my favorite gay-themed movie last year. The film deals with the reduced circumstances of an aging, 58-year-old gay ex-hustler entering his autumn years without a smidgen of regret or sentimentality (it’s out on DVD from Strand Releasing and is a must see). Now Mickey Rourke, bad boy star of the 1980s (remember how many different ways he bedded Kim Basinger in 9 ½ Weeks?) and more recently a tabloid darling (thanks to his public scrapes and many plastic surgeries) is back in The Wrestler, a rich character study from director Darren Aronfsky that, in many ways, mirrors Nolot’s film.
Like Pierre, Nolot’s character in Before I Forget, Rourke plays a man who has been venerated for his physical attributes. But unlike Pierre, who has learned to leave the past adoration behind thanks to a healthy dose of cynicism, Randy “The Ram” Robinson hasn’t a clue how to walk away from the intense hothouse of professional wrestling that has given him everything publicly and left him with nothing personally. As the film opens, Rourke has been reduced to random matches on the indie wrestling circuit. He’s still a big enough draw to headline these small town events and enough of a pro to give the fans a show. But the money’s not good enough to keep up with his bills, even with a part time job at a grocery store. Divorced, estranged from his daughter, who he discovers is a lesbian (a bitter, humorless Evan Rachel Wood), and alone, Randy reaches out to another aging loner, Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), a stripper who seems open to having a relationship with Randy beyond the occasional lap dance and barfly talk.
Then one night after a particularly bruising match, Randy suffers a heart attack and is forced to have heart surgery. The surgeon warns him that any undue strain will kill him so Randy retires and attempts to repair the relationship with his daughter and move things forward with Cassidy. But will The Ram, who only really seems to come alive in the ring, truly be able to retire especially when a lucrative rematch with a former opponent offers a chance to return to glory, at least temporarily?
The movie follows the all-too familiar theme of the once glorious career of the lead character now in tatters thanks to mounds of egomaniacal behavior (movies as diverse as I’ll Cry Tomorrow and La Vie en Rose have followed this same path) but Aronofsky’s film (working with the script by Robert D. Siegel) captures the gritty existence the characters inhabit which gives the film a tawdry realism and helps elevate it. As does Rourke’s intensely emotional performance. With his shoulder length, rat tail blonde hair, collagen plumped lips and muscular carcass, and his eyes—mostly filled with pain and loneliness—Rourke is a wonder to behold. The scene in which he awkwardly attempts to hand the daughter a gift is beautifully played by both Rourke and Wood, as is the scene in which Rourke and Tomei have gone shopping for the gift in a second hand store.
There’s also the lurid fascination of watching Rourke play a character that we imagine hits rather close to home. The actor is winning kudos for this “daring” feat—something of a last shot at fame; a comeback role that sentimental filmgoers will find oddly endearing. This is where Rourke and Aronfsky’s film part company with Nolot’s Before I Forget. Compelling and watchable as The Wrestler is, it’s also as sodden and emotionally awash in sentimentality as the girliest chick flick. It’s not going too far to say that with a gender reversal, this is a part that Susan Hayward would have killed for.
Will Smith, like many great movie stars, is a true acting schizophrenic. The Will Smith that I love—the great movie personality who has headlined blockbusters like I Am Legend, Men in Black and Independence Day—is nowhere to be found in his latest movie, Seven Pounds. Like his last venture into Acting Land, The Pursuit of Happyness, Smith’s new movie presents him in Serious Actor Mode and though he pouts, glowers, has moo cow eyes, and sobs beautifully on cue, he isn’t enough of an actor to give you anything beyond the surface. Without his patented blitz of energy, his contagious, cocky enthusiasm and confidence, Smith simply disappears onscreen for me, making Seven Pounds a very long haul indeed.
It’s a movie about death and taxes (yes, really), a phony baloney tearjerker in which Smith portrays a man who plays at being a sort of friendly angel of death. It’s one of those “noble” dramas that movie stars love (and oftentimes audiences, too) ; filled with characters heavy with the weight of regret. The use of metaphor throughout is smothering—Smith fixes Rosario Dawson’s old printing press but he can’t repair her heart, the rain snuffs out the candles which signals the end of hope and a potential romance, a slightly out of tune piano sounds on the soundtrack cuing the audience to get out their hankies, etc.
To give away any more secrets of Seven Pounds, be it either the farfetched, calculated plot or the meaning of its banal title would be to spoil the picture for those who still like a healthy dose of hyper emotionalism in their movies. So I will leave you to your own devices, tissue in hand, and simply sit here quietly waiting for the exuberant, alien butt kicking Smith to return.
Check out my archived reviews and Knight at Home at the Movies column for DVD recommendations at www.windycitytimes.com or www.knightatthemovies.com. Readers can leave feedback at the latter Web site.