Over the Couch at the Holiday Inn

Eh.

Most movies are designed (that’s the best word for it, I believe) to provide a memorable experience to the audience, and characters end up being minor tools, among others, to do it. A few movies are the reverse of that: They are created exclusively to paint a portrait of a character, with the experience of movie-going narrowed to one’s reaction to the character. This is one of the definitions of the ambiguous label “arthouse.”

“The Wrestler” is that kind of movie.

“The Wrestler” is to be appreciated, as opposed to being profoundly enjoyed. It is less a story than a snapshot of a man who finds where he belongs and what his true love is in this world–at least, the only love that will love him back. What he finds is his heart; if only the picture had the heart to match.

There’s something missing here, something that could have given it the emotional yank of a “Rocky,” to name one of many more engaging similar pictures. As the wrestler of the title, Mickey Rourke is believable and real and sympathetic (mostly because he looks fat and injured). His stripper-girlfriend, played by Marisa Tomei (who takes many more serious roles than her “My Cousin Vinny” Oscar makes people think) is just as real, just as human, just as faulty and flawed. Their situation is surely a common one in professional wrestling, and the emotions we see them confront are universal.

So all the ingredients are there for a memorable picture, yet “The Wrestler” doesn’t stick with you when it’s over. It is tempting to skip over the thinking and say simply that it lacks whatever “magic” spark makes a picture special, but that’s a cop-out, so I’ll try to define what seems–to me, at least–to be wrong. Despite its realistic characters and common feelings and interesting setting, the tension in “The Wrestler” is never great or unique. There’s never anything spectacular at stake that we as the audience are invested in. And if there is no great tension, there can be no great release–and this yin and yang is the very definition of much entertainment, even at the psychological level. Think of how the I chord relieves the tension of the V chord in a song–it’s that fundamental.

“The Wrestler” has plenty of fine and interesting components, but it fails to create a tension deep enough to make me feel something when it is satisfied. Not that the picture is bad–it’s just not special. It’s like the painting in the room at the Holiday Inn. Sure, they can put it over the couch. But a whole lot of others would look just as good. Nothing unique.

Eh.