I was never a big fan of Mickey Rourke during his heyday in the 1980s. That I am in the minority is demonstrated by the near-universal praise being heaped on The Wrestler, a movie which has nothing other than Rourke’s performance going for it. But just as I’m sure that at least some of the fans he has picked up in the last decade are attracted more to his status as a Hollywood outlaw than to anything in his prelapsarian body of work, I suspect that reactions to this largely predictable character sketch arise from the freak show spectacle of watching him re-enact his personal troubles in disguised form. This isn’t meant to detract from Rourke’s performance as a once-famous wrestler who refuses to get out of the game—it’s certainly the best he’s ever been on screen. But it’s hard not to feel that you’re watching authentic pain being exploited in the name of entertainment. The Wrestler is at its best in documenting the details of this peculiar sport, which despite its fakery is as physically demanding as any athletic endeavor. Watching Rourke’s Randy the Ram shopping for props at a dollar store, rehearsing routines with colleagues and doing what he can to minimize the physical damage of each bout is all engrossing stuff. But the script by Robert Siegel, so maudlin that it’s hard to believe he used to be a staff writer for the satirical newspaper The Onion, gives Randy a tiresomely melodramatic reunion with his estranged daughter and an unrequited love with a stripper (Marisa Tomei, also very good). She compares him to Christ and counterpoints his status as an exploited body, bludgeoning us with themes the film has not otherwise neglected. But this is after all a film by Darren Aronofsky, who has been called a lot of things but never “subtle.” While it’s ostentatiously low tech compared to his other films, there’s an “extreme” wrestling match that is almost as excruciatingly gruesome as anything in Requiem for a Dream. And if you doubt that he’s exploiting Rourke, notice how often he has Tomei naked onscreen. Two good performances in a lackluster movie—but who am I to argue?

—m. faust