So.
The economy is in the crapper. My 'savings' account actually laughed at me this morning when I peered into its dark and dingy hole to see if I had any money left.
Short answer? No.
Sounds like the perfect time for a vacation right? What, three months after taking two weeks to explore the Italian countryside?
Yep, we're going to Oz. We got tickets on the cheap, friends to stay with and, more importantly, if we don't do it RIGHT NOW chances are we never will.
So when you put it like that, what's 20 hours plus in a plane? (Answer: Terrifying)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Poli-ticky
There are a handful of people in this world that I can talk politics with, and on a really good day that number includes my wife. Which isn’t to say she’s not interested and informed in politics, she is, it’s just that given an opportunity to talk politics I’m likely to dominate the conversation with it until a) I get hungry or b) sleepy.
So, unless a particular issue is really sticking in her craw she’s liable to leave that topic of conversation alone, to preserve her sanity if nothing else.
But I tell you, with what passes for informed discourse these days I’m becoming more and more disgusted with the whole process.
It’s a point of pride with me that no one knows how I vote. Although my father likes to take the piss out of me by pretending that I’m some hard core left wing socialist I’ve never told anyone, ever, how I’ve voted in any given election. Part of that is because I don’t want to be pigeon holed as some sort of one party sycophant. Once someone identifies you politically in their mind, that’s who you’ll be to them forever more, despite how your political needs and opinions might change over time.
But I’ve wandered off topic here.
What spurred this post was my growing annoyance with the Toronto Star’s recent decision to allow comments on all their online new stories. Now every time a political story is run the comments section heats up almost instantaneously with idiots hiding under the guise of electronic anonymity, blasting writers and political parties simply for being ideologically different than they are.
Even the most objective information is blasted with partisan vitriol and hostility.
What the hell happened to mature debate? I’m old enough and mature enough to look at all the political parties out there and see something in each platform that appeals to me.
Green Party – Environmentalism
NDP – Urban Issues
Conservatives – Smaller Government
Liberal Party – Um. Environmentalism
I can respect a different point of a view from own, as long as it’s presented to me in a mature and grown up manner. It’s called life. Someone is always going to disagree with you, that doesn’t automatically make them the anti-christ.
And yet the bashing continues as if anyone who thinks differently is a criminal of the worst sort. If you identify online with one political party, then a free for all dog pile of hate, scorn and public shaming begins. It’s impossible for anyone to engage you like a human being. It’s not just the anonymous yahoos either. Or political leaders, our so-called role models, routinely bash each other or any special interest group they deem unlikely to support them.
Take a look at the sustained Conservative attack on Ontario. Feeling unlikely to win many seats in the province the Tories feel like its open season on our politicians, our policies and our province. The only way they can make themselves look big is by knocking around someone else who can’t compete with them at the same level.
I’m not naïve. I know that politics is a blood sport, built more around political parties staying in power, as opposed to a nobler calling. It takes a strong stomach to wade into the mess and separate the wheat from the chaff, finding parties and policies that work for you, rather then just picking one party and sticking with it – cause, you know, it’s easier to do that than put any real thought into what’s happening around you.
I just can’t help but feel like this sustained e-bashing is designed to make the whole experience even more exclusionary, driving the moderates and the mature into the shadows, unwilling to take on the ravenous partisan appetites of those who troll the internet looking to make a point. And that’s a shame, because democracy is about hearing from all voices, espeically the ones you don’t like.
So, unless a particular issue is really sticking in her craw she’s liable to leave that topic of conversation alone, to preserve her sanity if nothing else.
But I tell you, with what passes for informed discourse these days I’m becoming more and more disgusted with the whole process.
It’s a point of pride with me that no one knows how I vote. Although my father likes to take the piss out of me by pretending that I’m some hard core left wing socialist I’ve never told anyone, ever, how I’ve voted in any given election. Part of that is because I don’t want to be pigeon holed as some sort of one party sycophant. Once someone identifies you politically in their mind, that’s who you’ll be to them forever more, despite how your political needs and opinions might change over time.
But I’ve wandered off topic here.
What spurred this post was my growing annoyance with the Toronto Star’s recent decision to allow comments on all their online new stories. Now every time a political story is run the comments section heats up almost instantaneously with idiots hiding under the guise of electronic anonymity, blasting writers and political parties simply for being ideologically different than they are.
Even the most objective information is blasted with partisan vitriol and hostility.
What the hell happened to mature debate? I’m old enough and mature enough to look at all the political parties out there and see something in each platform that appeals to me.
Green Party – Environmentalism
NDP – Urban Issues
Conservatives – Smaller Government
Liberal Party – Um. Environmentalism
I can respect a different point of a view from own, as long as it’s presented to me in a mature and grown up manner. It’s called life. Someone is always going to disagree with you, that doesn’t automatically make them the anti-christ.
And yet the bashing continues as if anyone who thinks differently is a criminal of the worst sort. If you identify online with one political party, then a free for all dog pile of hate, scorn and public shaming begins. It’s impossible for anyone to engage you like a human being. It’s not just the anonymous yahoos either. Or political leaders, our so-called role models, routinely bash each other or any special interest group they deem unlikely to support them.
Take a look at the sustained Conservative attack on Ontario. Feeling unlikely to win many seats in the province the Tories feel like its open season on our politicians, our policies and our province. The only way they can make themselves look big is by knocking around someone else who can’t compete with them at the same level.
I’m not naïve. I know that politics is a blood sport, built more around political parties staying in power, as opposed to a nobler calling. It takes a strong stomach to wade into the mess and separate the wheat from the chaff, finding parties and policies that work for you, rather then just picking one party and sticking with it – cause, you know, it’s easier to do that than put any real thought into what’s happening around you.
I just can’t help but feel like this sustained e-bashing is designed to make the whole experience even more exclusionary, driving the moderates and the mature into the shadows, unwilling to take on the ravenous partisan appetites of those who troll the internet looking to make a point. And that’s a shame, because democracy is about hearing from all voices, espeically the ones you don’t like.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Paul Newman 1925 - 2008
Ahhhhh son of a bitch. Paul Newman is dead. Of cancer no less.
One of the last remaining vestiges of Hollywood's Golden Era. He hailed from a time when the blockbuster had, thankfully, yet to be perfected, films were about educating and enlightening the audience and gritty character roles were more valuable then running around with a gun in your hand and your shirt torn off.
What always appealed to me about Newman is that despite his pretty boy looks he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty to take on a role. He wasn't the world's greatest actor, but he was a very honest one. He was very much a working, blue collar type of performer.
I hope that in the weeks ahead that some of the specialty channels get their think on and feature some of his better films, (I've been wanting to watch Butch Cassisdy and the Sundance Kid again for awhile now).
So long Paul. You will be missed.
One of the last remaining vestiges of Hollywood's Golden Era. He hailed from a time when the blockbuster had, thankfully, yet to be perfected, films were about educating and enlightening the audience and gritty character roles were more valuable then running around with a gun in your hand and your shirt torn off.
What always appealed to me about Newman is that despite his pretty boy looks he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty to take on a role. He wasn't the world's greatest actor, but he was a very honest one. He was very much a working, blue collar type of performer.
I hope that in the weeks ahead that some of the specialty channels get their think on and feature some of his better films, (I've been wanting to watch Butch Cassisdy and the Sundance Kid again for awhile now).
So long Paul. You will be missed.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Ch-ch-ch changes...
Trust and confidence are sticky widgets.
I’ve played on enough Frisbee teams where everybody studiously avoids throwing to the newbie because they don’t know the skill level of the new person. And let me tell you, when that new person is you, it sucks. In most cases these new fish have the skills, but when they’re never given an opportunity to showcase them it weakens the team (unable to make proper use of all players on the field) and it’s fairly insulting to odd wo\man out. And sometimes the situation gets proportionally worse, the longer you don’t pass to person X, the more the habit of avoiding them altogether gets reinforced.
S has frequently run into another problem, co-ed teams that don’t throw to their women. You want to piss my wife off? Charge her a hundred bucks to your join your team, then imply she’s not good enough to play on it. I recommend you duck and cover or find a good burn unit. Sexism is alive and well my friends.
Unfortunately I’ve run into a situation at work that has shaken up my neat little kingdom. Recently my office hired another person, with the same job title as me. It’s a move that was long overdue. The department was originally staffed by three people, but for the last 4-6 months the only person holding down the fort was me. I’m competent, not Superman. I needed the assist.
During that solo time period what I did was build up a system that worked really well for me. Now someone else has been added to the mix, the system is being disrupted…and I’m not handling it all that well.
I don’t loathe change. I just loathe it when its not on my own terms.
Part of the problem is she’s really smart and good at her job. So part of me feels threatened. She also knows my manager socially. So they have a bond there that excludes me. As such, he tends to trust her and rely on her. A couple times now I’ve attempted to tell my manager why something, that was poorly worded, needed to be fixed. He resisted my suggestion until, independently, new staffer brought the same issues to his attention, which he then fixed. So, in my eye he either trusts her more, or trusts me less. (A third option, more nuanced, but less satisfying, is that he simply recognized the need to make the change after two separate people brought the issue to his attention)
To me there’s a loss of prestige (king of the hill!) and a suggestion that my opinions\abilities aren’t quite as valuable as I thought they were. It’s been difficult to part with some of my responsibilities and have to include another opinion in something where I’ve had much more independent discretion.
Honestly, I don’t like it. (Forehead. Hand. Duh!) It’s much easier to be a team player when there’s always been a team. It’s a lot harder to willingly accept a forced partnership when you’ve traditionally been the lone wolf. (Think Will Ferrell in Anchorman)
I don’t know what the future will hold for me and how I will deal with the evolving nature of my job. But it continues to kindle the need in me to be my own boss and work under my own terms. Only, until I finish my PR certificate, there’s a great case for staying where I am just a little longer.
I’ve played on enough Frisbee teams where everybody studiously avoids throwing to the newbie because they don’t know the skill level of the new person. And let me tell you, when that new person is you, it sucks. In most cases these new fish have the skills, but when they’re never given an opportunity to showcase them it weakens the team (unable to make proper use of all players on the field) and it’s fairly insulting to odd wo\man out. And sometimes the situation gets proportionally worse, the longer you don’t pass to person X, the more the habit of avoiding them altogether gets reinforced.
S has frequently run into another problem, co-ed teams that don’t throw to their women. You want to piss my wife off? Charge her a hundred bucks to your join your team, then imply she’s not good enough to play on it. I recommend you duck and cover or find a good burn unit. Sexism is alive and well my friends.
Unfortunately I’ve run into a situation at work that has shaken up my neat little kingdom. Recently my office hired another person, with the same job title as me. It’s a move that was long overdue. The department was originally staffed by three people, but for the last 4-6 months the only person holding down the fort was me. I’m competent, not Superman. I needed the assist.
During that solo time period what I did was build up a system that worked really well for me. Now someone else has been added to the mix, the system is being disrupted…and I’m not handling it all that well.
I don’t loathe change. I just loathe it when its not on my own terms.
Part of the problem is she’s really smart and good at her job. So part of me feels threatened. She also knows my manager socially. So they have a bond there that excludes me. As such, he tends to trust her and rely on her. A couple times now I’ve attempted to tell my manager why something, that was poorly worded, needed to be fixed. He resisted my suggestion until, independently, new staffer brought the same issues to his attention, which he then fixed. So, in my eye he either trusts her more, or trusts me less. (A third option, more nuanced, but less satisfying, is that he simply recognized the need to make the change after two separate people brought the issue to his attention)
To me there’s a loss of prestige (king of the hill!) and a suggestion that my opinions\abilities aren’t quite as valuable as I thought they were. It’s been difficult to part with some of my responsibilities and have to include another opinion in something where I’ve had much more independent discretion.
Honestly, I don’t like it. (Forehead. Hand. Duh!) It’s much easier to be a team player when there’s always been a team. It’s a lot harder to willingly accept a forced partnership when you’ve traditionally been the lone wolf. (Think Will Ferrell in Anchorman)
I don’t know what the future will hold for me and how I will deal with the evolving nature of my job. But it continues to kindle the need in me to be my own boss and work under my own terms. Only, until I finish my PR certificate, there’s a great case for staying where I am just a little longer.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Chris does TIFF: Miracle at St. Anna edition
Miracle at St. Anna
Saturday, Saturday, September 13th, 8:30pm
Ryerson Theatre
A week late, and hardly insightful and indepth. But the following review encapsulates about all I have to say regarding this film.
Spike Lee’s greatest strength as a director is his uncompromising vision. Artistically I’ve always found him to be fairly hit or miss, but sometimes, through sheer strength of will alone, he’s able to elevate the quality of his films to a level they would otherwise not be able to achieve. Sadly, that vision is lacking in his latest outing, Miracle at St. Anna.
The film follows the lives of four black soldiers, of the 92nd infantry division, colloquially known as the Buffalo soldiers, after they get trapped in a small Italian village during the second World War. The film is based on a book by James McBride and for some strange reason Spike allows multiple subplots, backstorys and flashbacks to clutter up the main narrative of the film. Instead of dealing with the situation at hand, (how the fuck do we get out of Dodge), we find ourselves sitting through convoluted love triangles, the discovery of a long lost cultural treasure, the subterfuge and deception of the Italian Resistance and a handful of other plotlines that work against the film’s natural rhythm. Perhaps that’s why the film feels so bloated at just over three hours long.
Seeing as how the film’s screenwriter, McBride, also wrote the book it shouldn’t come as a surprise that all these unnecessary subplots were carried over when he adapted his own source material. I’m guessing, as a writer, he was loath to edit his babies. If McBride didn’t have the strength to cut down the length of his screenplay then Spike should have made the tough calls when he was in the editing room and chucked some of the dead weight overboard, turning this lumbering frigate of a film into a streamlined powerboat.
It’s not a bad film, or even a dull film. It’s a long, rambling, unnecessarily meandering film that you can’t help but want to be over just so you can step out to the washroom and relieve the pressure on your kidneys.
This film is destined to fall into Spike’s ‘nearly ran’ file folder, denied the honour of standing alongside his greater masterpieces. It’s a clear example of being slavishly held to the whims of the original source material and not making the proper allowances to the conventions of its newly adopted medium.
Saturday, Saturday, September 13th, 8:30pm
Ryerson Theatre
A week late, and hardly insightful and indepth. But the following review encapsulates about all I have to say regarding this film.
Spike Lee’s greatest strength as a director is his uncompromising vision. Artistically I’ve always found him to be fairly hit or miss, but sometimes, through sheer strength of will alone, he’s able to elevate the quality of his films to a level they would otherwise not be able to achieve. Sadly, that vision is lacking in his latest outing, Miracle at St. Anna.
The film follows the lives of four black soldiers, of the 92nd infantry division, colloquially known as the Buffalo soldiers, after they get trapped in a small Italian village during the second World War. The film is based on a book by James McBride and for some strange reason Spike allows multiple subplots, backstorys and flashbacks to clutter up the main narrative of the film. Instead of dealing with the situation at hand, (how the fuck do we get out of Dodge), we find ourselves sitting through convoluted love triangles, the discovery of a long lost cultural treasure, the subterfuge and deception of the Italian Resistance and a handful of other plotlines that work against the film’s natural rhythm. Perhaps that’s why the film feels so bloated at just over three hours long.
Seeing as how the film’s screenwriter, McBride, also wrote the book it shouldn’t come as a surprise that all these unnecessary subplots were carried over when he adapted his own source material. I’m guessing, as a writer, he was loath to edit his babies. If McBride didn’t have the strength to cut down the length of his screenplay then Spike should have made the tough calls when he was in the editing room and chucked some of the dead weight overboard, turning this lumbering frigate of a film into a streamlined powerboat.
It’s not a bad film, or even a dull film. It’s a long, rambling, unnecessarily meandering film that you can’t help but want to be over just so you can step out to the washroom and relieve the pressure on your kidneys.
This film is destined to fall into Spike’s ‘nearly ran’ file folder, denied the honour of standing alongside his greater masterpieces. It’s a clear example of being slavishly held to the whims of the original source material and not making the proper allowances to the conventions of its newly adopted medium.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Chris does TIFF: RocknRolla edition
RocknRolla
Saturday, September 13, 2:30pm
Ryerson Theatre
Guy Ritchie is back doing gangster films and, sadly, that’s not a good thing. You couldn’t have a more wildly misleading opening to a movie review then that last sentence.
Ritchie’s last film, Revolver, was sadly denied a movie screen experience for North American audiences and we are all the poorer for it. An inspiring analysis of the human mind the film only recently showed up in bargain bins where it quietly went unnoticed except by the most dedicated film buffs. So perhaps that’s why Ritchie has chosen to retreat to more familiar subject matter, as an attempt to regain the buzz and counter-culture sensibilities of his earlier efforts.
Enter RocknRolla.
The film stars a veritable hodge podge of quirky personalities, played by everyone from A-list types on their way up the celebrity ladder (Gerard Butler), to venerable character actors (Tom Wilkinson) and attractive femme fatales (Thandie Newton). Trying to summarize the plot of this labyrinthine story in a few short sentences is a masochistic job meant for those with bigger brains then I posses. To call it a gangster film about the changing nature of organized crime is like saying War and Peace is a book about some ‘stuff that went down in Russia.’
RocknRolla deals with the fallout of London’s skyrocketing property values. Europe’s nouveau riche has descended on the city and the only way they can get permission to erect their new building is by linking arm’s with the local wheeler dealer types, led by big fish Wilkinson, to help grease the wheels of an intransigent bureaucracy. Butler leads a group of little fish, affectionately named the Wild Bunch, that get caught up in Wilkinson’s shady deals and unknowingly complicate matters by pinching some money that doesn’t belong to them. In the end, almost everyone involved is trying to track down an oft referenced, but never seen, ‘lucky’ painting, in a homage cribbed directly from Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction playbook.
RocknRolla lacks the punch of Ritchie’s previous gangster films, the modern classic Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrells and Snatch, not because RR is a bad film or even a weaker film. Rather, it’s been eight years since a Ritchie gangster film last graced the big screen and since that time a genre of filmmaking he’d help reinvigorate has become so popular that his work seems less original and groundbreaking as a result. Nothing succeeds like success.
Ritchie continues to push the genre as far as he can, with his top drawer writing, editing and direction. And even though you’ll leave the theatre impressed with the results, you can’t help but think that you’ve seen it all before.
Apparently he’s written a sequel to this film, The Real RocknRolla or some such nonsense, which he alludes to in the end credits with a James Bondian-like flourish. I think the biggest vote of confidence that I can offer RocknRolla, is that I’d be very interested in checking out what comes after.
Saturday, September 13, 2:30pm
Ryerson Theatre
Guy Ritchie is back doing gangster films and, sadly, that’s not a good thing. You couldn’t have a more wildly misleading opening to a movie review then that last sentence.
Ritchie’s last film, Revolver, was sadly denied a movie screen experience for North American audiences and we are all the poorer for it. An inspiring analysis of the human mind the film only recently showed up in bargain bins where it quietly went unnoticed except by the most dedicated film buffs. So perhaps that’s why Ritchie has chosen to retreat to more familiar subject matter, as an attempt to regain the buzz and counter-culture sensibilities of his earlier efforts.
Enter RocknRolla.
The film stars a veritable hodge podge of quirky personalities, played by everyone from A-list types on their way up the celebrity ladder (Gerard Butler), to venerable character actors (Tom Wilkinson) and attractive femme fatales (Thandie Newton). Trying to summarize the plot of this labyrinthine story in a few short sentences is a masochistic job meant for those with bigger brains then I posses. To call it a gangster film about the changing nature of organized crime is like saying War and Peace is a book about some ‘stuff that went down in Russia.’
RocknRolla deals with the fallout of London’s skyrocketing property values. Europe’s nouveau riche has descended on the city and the only way they can get permission to erect their new building is by linking arm’s with the local wheeler dealer types, led by big fish Wilkinson, to help grease the wheels of an intransigent bureaucracy. Butler leads a group of little fish, affectionately named the Wild Bunch, that get caught up in Wilkinson’s shady deals and unknowingly complicate matters by pinching some money that doesn’t belong to them. In the end, almost everyone involved is trying to track down an oft referenced, but never seen, ‘lucky’ painting, in a homage cribbed directly from Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction playbook.
RocknRolla lacks the punch of Ritchie’s previous gangster films, the modern classic Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrells and Snatch, not because RR is a bad film or even a weaker film. Rather, it’s been eight years since a Ritchie gangster film last graced the big screen and since that time a genre of filmmaking he’d help reinvigorate has become so popular that his work seems less original and groundbreaking as a result. Nothing succeeds like success.
Ritchie continues to push the genre as far as he can, with his top drawer writing, editing and direction. And even though you’ll leave the theatre impressed with the results, you can’t help but think that you’ve seen it all before.
Apparently he’s written a sequel to this film, The Real RocknRolla or some such nonsense, which he alludes to in the end credits with a James Bondian-like flourish. I think the biggest vote of confidence that I can offer RocknRolla, is that I’d be very interested in checking out what comes after.
Chris does TIFF: The Wrestler edition
The Wrestler
9am, Saturday, September 13
Ryerson Theatre
Darren Aronofsky blows my mind. If you have enough brain power to process that last sentence, you clearly haven’t seen any of his films.
Pi? Power drill to the forehead at the film’s climax.
Requiem for a Dream? The entire movie is like a power drill to the forehead.
The Fountain? Yah, I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one.
The point is, every time this man picks up a piece of celluloid some part of my cognitive capacity dies a horrible death.
But The Wrestler isn’t like that. This is Aronofsky working in a different gear. The film follows Mickey Rourke, as Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, finishing up his pro wrestling career as little more than a shadow of the man he used to be. Randy is living a life on the fringes of pro wrestling, using his fading name and reputation to help him make a couple of extra dollars. His best days behind him, Randy is forced to participate in some of wrestling’s more dangerous matches in order to pull together enough money to make a living.
However tragedy strikes and Randy’s career is stopped dead in its tracks after a near fatal heart attack. Forcibly retired Randy tries to reconnect with the people in his life that are important to him, including his estranged daughter Stephanie, Evan Rachel Wood, and Cassidy, Maria Tomei, an aging peeler at the local strip club.
Randy’s attempts to leave wrestling behind and make a life for himself in the real world prove harder than he expected and soon if he finds himself contemplating a return to the ring.
Mickey Rourke is fantastic in this film. What is this, his fifth career comeback? If his performance here doesn’t have Oscar buzz all over it, it’s because the Academy is too busy trying to unwrap the milk chocolate from all those gold statues. I’m not saying he deserves to win, but I think, at the very least, his performance deserves to be considered. Wood and Tomei also turn in respectable performances with their time onscreen.
Aronofsky does a fantastic job setting up parallel story lines between Randy and Cassidy. Both make a living by selling a fantasy to the willing masses and both have trouble adjusting to the expectations of the real world when the sun comes up. But while Randy has squandered his time in the spotlight and has nothing to show for it, Cassidy has made the most of her circumstances and plans to retire on her own terms.
Unlike Aronofsky’s other films The Wrestler is more bio pic than mind fuck. Instead of trying to broaden our horizons about what it means to be human he chooses to tell a simpler tale of a man coming to terms with his own obsolescence and how he struggles to main his identity and dignity throughout. You don’t have to be a wrestling fan to enjoy this film, although it may help a little. In the end, if you like a good story, told well, this film is for you.
9am, Saturday, September 13
Ryerson Theatre
Darren Aronofsky blows my mind. If you have enough brain power to process that last sentence, you clearly haven’t seen any of his films.
Pi? Power drill to the forehead at the film’s climax.
Requiem for a Dream? The entire movie is like a power drill to the forehead.
The Fountain? Yah, I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one.
The point is, every time this man picks up a piece of celluloid some part of my cognitive capacity dies a horrible death.
But The Wrestler isn’t like that. This is Aronofsky working in a different gear. The film follows Mickey Rourke, as Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, finishing up his pro wrestling career as little more than a shadow of the man he used to be. Randy is living a life on the fringes of pro wrestling, using his fading name and reputation to help him make a couple of extra dollars. His best days behind him, Randy is forced to participate in some of wrestling’s more dangerous matches in order to pull together enough money to make a living.
However tragedy strikes and Randy’s career is stopped dead in its tracks after a near fatal heart attack. Forcibly retired Randy tries to reconnect with the people in his life that are important to him, including his estranged daughter Stephanie, Evan Rachel Wood, and Cassidy, Maria Tomei, an aging peeler at the local strip club.
Randy’s attempts to leave wrestling behind and make a life for himself in the real world prove harder than he expected and soon if he finds himself contemplating a return to the ring.
Mickey Rourke is fantastic in this film. What is this, his fifth career comeback? If his performance here doesn’t have Oscar buzz all over it, it’s because the Academy is too busy trying to unwrap the milk chocolate from all those gold statues. I’m not saying he deserves to win, but I think, at the very least, his performance deserves to be considered. Wood and Tomei also turn in respectable performances with their time onscreen.
Aronofsky does a fantastic job setting up parallel story lines between Randy and Cassidy. Both make a living by selling a fantasy to the willing masses and both have trouble adjusting to the expectations of the real world when the sun comes up. But while Randy has squandered his time in the spotlight and has nothing to show for it, Cassidy has made the most of her circumstances and plans to retire on her own terms.
Unlike Aronofsky’s other films The Wrestler is more bio pic than mind fuck. Instead of trying to broaden our horizons about what it means to be human he chooses to tell a simpler tale of a man coming to terms with his own obsolescence and how he struggles to main his identity and dignity throughout. You don’t have to be a wrestling fan to enjoy this film, although it may help a little. In the end, if you like a good story, told well, this film is for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
