There is something very magical about this movie; something that probably cannot be explained in words. I am not sure if it's because it's Mickey Fucking Rourke playing the washed-out lead. I'm not sure if it's because his estranged daughter (played by Evan Rachel Wood) seems to be about the same age as my daughter. I'm not sure if it's because the cheap parallels between his career in this movie and the career of the love interest, played by a tatted up and nipple-pierced Marisa Tomei, are so painfully obvious and yet so delicately portrayed. Perhaps it's all this and more. Something unique is going on in this movie and I dare you to watch it and not have a strong opinion about it. My opinion is that everyone involved deserves every major award those sycophants in Hollywood dish out each year.
If you're a youngster, you might not have ever heard of Mickey Rourke. If that's the case, this movie might be a completely different and much less satisfying couple of hours for you. I'd be very interested to know if that's true or not. In order to fully appreciate what's happening here, it would be helpful for you to know that Mickey Rourke is flat fucking nuts. He's insane. And I don't mean like Tom Cruise jumping up and down on Oprah's couch insane. I mean like jumping up and down on Oprah insane. He's a hard-drinking, chain-smoking, steroid-pumping beast who told Hollywood to go fuck itself and started boxing for a living at the height of his acting career. Some called it a publicity stunt. I say they're full of it. I say it was born of a fervent desire to knock the ever-loving shit out of someone and see the bloody result on both their face and his hands.
I suppose I should have expected genius work from Darren Aronofsky. I enjoyed Pi (1998), loved Requiem for a Dream (2000), and tried to forgive him for that pretentious mess The Fountain (2006). This one, however, is by far his best work to date. The script is written by Robert Siegel, former editor-in-chief of The Onion. I would say something sarcastic and unusual at this point about that fact, but sometimes life is stranger than made up news.
We rewatched Body Heat the other night. I am always interested in seeing how films from my past (which I've consistently said were masterpieces) hold up when I actually watch them again. In this case, it was perfect. That movie may even be better than I thought at first. One of the reasons is the minor role by Mickey Rourke. He plays the thug-friend just out of the joint who teaches the upstanding folks how to be a bad guy when push comes to shove. But he warns them, "You really shouldn't be doing this, you know." And that look in his eye back in 1981 is the same look on his bloated face in The Wrestler when he looks at himself in the mirror. Unfortunately for him, fame and the attendant applause and good will is just as serious an addiction as the heroin was for the kids in Requiem for a Dream.
The beginning of this film is pretty bloody. I mean Passion of the Christ bloody. The middle is heart-wrenching. I mean Old Yeller heart-wrenching. The end is perfect. I mean perfect.