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Lex, Edward and I saw Darren Aronofsky’s “The Wrestler” a few days ago and were each of us stunned by the piece. I could be called an Aronofsky detractor in any other circumstance, his earlier work like fingernails on the chalkboard of my brightest hopes. The Wrestler, however, delivers.

It delivers a lot more than merely an amazing film, though. To me, it rekindles a secret appreciation for Aronofsky and his relentless desire to reveal a perfectly described bubble, warn you that he is going to pop it and then still manage to make you think, if even for a second, that there is hope – that this bubble won’t pop just this one time – immediately before popping the shit out of it. 
 

I suppose I just couldn’t relate to his previous three films. 

Pi was a competent first work that garnered a deserved amount of buzz but was written from the perspective of someone who hasn’t actually gone beyond simple research to present a world that might, at first blush, pass for reality but on even a trivial amount of inspection collapses under the weight of the heady idea it is trying to represent. 

Requiem for a Dream was a showcase for actors, a very good one, but that alone did not make an interesting story. I’ve never shot shit, never smoked a bowl and never turned to prostitution to supply my jam habit so I was a bit left out. Your experience may vary, but it reminded me of the rich white kids I went to school with pretending to be able to relate to Trainspotting and brought forth the idea that it wasn’t the rich white kids’ fault; they just wanted to be a part of a popular fantasized world and, in true pack-animal fashion, never followed the story to it’s end where everyone is all well and truly screwed.

It was kind of like Rent in that for some ridiculous reason everyone in the fucking piece was hell bent on doing shit to kill himself and then crying about how totally fucked he was as a result. I can only conclude that this type of story is highly entertaining to people who’ve never actually had real problems, much in the same way that I enjoy stories with robots and space travel and shit I can’t take part in. I suppose for some people the normal rigors of life are so withheld that they have to fantasize about hardship between bouts of crying about Brittany and totally flipping out about shit that would make a Ugandan slum kid proud to have to be dealing with rather than, you know, not fucking eating.

It doesn’t help that Clint Mansel’s “everyone is dying of fucking heroin and Jennifer Connelly is totally butt-to-butt right now” theme was used in fifty different trailers, the hight point of which was Lord of the fucking Rings. 

The Fountain was a mess. A serious mess. I went in with crazy huge expectations and was left staggered with the tepid drivel I was offered for my measly $10. It was a love story with no love, a space story not actually set in space. The whole thing boiled down to greed, and I don’t buy that as the greatest love story ever told. Also, mad points lost for relegating Ellen Burstyn to “scientist lady A” after her Oscar trip on Requiem.

All of that said, The Wrestler rocked my face. I think it was because Aronofsky didn’t write this one and didn’t have to totally blow our minds with how innovative, depressing or Zen he could be. He just let the story tell itself, let Mickey Rourke deliver a world shaking performance. No Anfy-Cam, no “it’s so cool to be tripping”, no outlandish space-tree-bubble-conquistador. Most of the film is just following Rourke around and letting him make me cry.

What does that mean for Robocop? Aronofsky recently spoke about his planned remake of my favorite film, and he says he is committed to making a hard film that is true to it’s source. I can only hope that’s true, because right now Aronofsky has pulled a Nolan on me and has me in his clutches. The success of The Wrestler might make a real stab at Robocop possible. Let’s hope.

Plus, The Wrestler was like research for Robocop. You know that Robocop wrestles, right?

Robocop also likes fried chicken.