The spurious case of Benjamin Button

Review of Oscar winning yawnfest The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, published on spiked.

It would be fair to say that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button got what it deserved at the Oscars this month: a technical gong or two for best make-up and visual effects, and not a whole lot else. That award haul is an adequate representation of the achievements of a film that flatters to deceive, and imagines itself to be a whole lot cleverer than it is.

The premise of the film, adapted from F Scott Fitzgerald’s short story of the same name, is the examination of a life lived in reverse. What would be the fate, trials and tribulations of a man who is born with the withered body of an 85-year-old but in the frame of newborn baby, and who progresses/regresses through life in the opposite direction to which nature has made us accustomed, gradually growing younger through old and middle age, adulthood, youth and puberty, until finally he dies with the outward appearance of an infant?

We first catch a glimpse of the shrivelled-up face of Benjamin Button (later to be played by Brad Pitt) on the steps of a New Orleans residential home, where he is abandoned by his father. The boy is adopted and raised by Queenie (Taraji P Henson), the black nurse in the home who Benjamin calls ‘momma’. Here he soon meets five-year-old Daisy (played by Cate Blanchett in her adult years), the grand-daughter of a resident, who is to become the love of his life.
I have no inherent objection to far-fetched and fantastical storylines, but this one struck me as exceptionally silly. Unless you are making a pure fantasy film - the kind that is generally of interest only to geeks - then unrealistic elements do not enhance plots; they only work if they add something to our understanding or appreciation of life as it is in reality. In following a life lived in reverse, from an old-age birth to an infant death, the makers of Benjamin Button seem to believe they will automatically make some earth-shattering philosophical point about the nature of time and fleetingness of life and love. But they don’t.

The main problem is that they somehow contrive to make the central plot device incidental to the actual plot. And the plot itself quickly lapses into what is essentially the most ordinary, benign and predictable love story schema imaginable: boy/old man meets girl; boy/old man falls in love with girl; boy/old man loses girl; boy/old man reunites with girl after much time apart; boy/old man and girl are forced to separate for reasons beyond their control, this time for good. Granted, the reason for their final separation is an original one, but Shakespeare was peddling the basic star-crossed lovers theme over 400 years ago, and doing a much better job of it, too.

And boy is the film long. Considering that it portrays a man’s 85 years from wrinkly birth to fresh-faced death, you might think the audience would struggle to keep up with the furious pace of Benjamin Button as years fly by in a matter of minutes; in fact, at over two-and-a-half hours long, it has all the pace of an Oscars ceremony hosted by Stephen Hawking.

Perhaps it is only natural that a film trying to make a serious point about the nature of time feels that it has to take up a lot of the stuff in order to do so. However, I’m starting to think that directors of films over two hours in length should be required to submit evidence to the BBFC before the film is approved for general release, in order to justify those precious extra minutes drained from our lives. Apocalypse Now would survive such a test; Benjamin Button wouldn’t.

Once we get past the novelties and few comic moments offered by practicalities of ‘de-ageing’ - such as a man losing his virginity at the apparent age of 70 - there’s very little to hold one’s interest in this film; The Curious Case of Benjamin Button becomes less and less curious with each slow, ponderous minute it drags on for. This is some fall from grace considering director David Fincher and Brad Pitt’s previous collaborations, the fantastically dark and subversive Fight Club and Seven. With a stark absence of any real stimulation, intellectual or otherwise, you might watch ‘The Spurious Case of Benjamin Button’ and, like me, be underwhelmed to point of pun-inducing tedium for at least the last hour of it.

Adrian Chiles Outed As Puritan Undercover Agent

A piece published on the satirical news website The Tart here, in the wake of the Carol Thatcher 'golliwog' row, which belies a serious point - It is my conviction that free speech should be unconditional, and there's nothing more to say about it than that.

BBC presenter and professional laconic west-midlander Adrian Chiles has admitted the truth of rumours that he has been working at the corporation as a spy for puritanical Christian organisation Mediawatch.

Suspicions were first aroused last week after Chiles reported lispy mad old hag Carol Thatcher to his superiors for her backstage use of the term ‘golliwog’. This was swiftly followed by the sacking of Alan Hansen after Chiles brought to the attention of Beeb bosses his gratuitous use of the word ‘balls’ on Match of the Day 2, and then the forced resignation of fellow host of The One Show Christine Bleakley after she referred to gardening guru Alan Titchmarsh by his full name.
The latter incident initially prompted 27 complaints to the BBC, all of which have since been traced to Chiles’ mobile phone. However this figure ballooned to 25,000 complaints (and rising) after The Mail on Sunday nobly picked up the story. Speculation is now rife that Chiles has had a hand in the propagation of numerous other scandals which have beset the Corporation in recent times, including the now notorious Sachsgate affair.

Chiles confessed to his secret role when challenged by BBC supremos who questioned him upon discovering the origin of the first complaints regarding Ms Bleakley. He claims he was recruited by the ultra-conservative Christian group Mediawatch several years ago, and their plan to clear the airwaves of foul and offensive language had just begun to pay dividends.

“Yes, it’s true,” acknowledged Chiles, “I’ve had an ulterior motive at the BBC for some time now. But I had a higher purpose, and I don’t regret it even for a second. Someone had to get that filth and smut off our screens before it was too late and this country really went down the pan. If you ask me, it was about fucking time. The cunts.”

Milk: A new blend of politics

Review of Oscar-nominated film Milk, also published, along with many other great articles, in online magazine spiked. Click here to read it in its original published form.

On 1 February, Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir became prime minister of Iceland, and in doing so became the world’s first gay head of government (openly at least – the jury is still out on Ted Heath). Thirty-one years earlier, Harvey Milk became the United States’ first openly gay elected official when he was voted on to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

The title of city councillor may carry less prestige and power than that of prime minister, but Milk is regarded as a trail-blazer and a martyr in the gay community, and his untimely death and colourful life and career make the Hollywoodisation of Milk’s story something of an inevitability. Enter Gus Van Sant and Sean Penn.

It is interesting and perhaps indicting that even when Hollywood places gay characters at the centre of its movies, it is invariably a straight actor who is called upon to play the role. Tom Hanks in Philadelphia, Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote, Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain, and River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves in My Own Private Idaho (an early Van Sant film): all completed the job with differing degrees of success. And now we have Penn as Harvey Milk.

It seems gay actors are only fit to play that rom-com staple ‘the gay best friend’, and any gay character with a modicum of depth goes to a straight actor. Mind you, maybe the gay acting talent just isn’t out there. John Barrowman as Harvey Milk anyone? In Milk, this is something of a moot point, as Sean Penn successfully embodies the flamboyant quirks and mannerisms of a somewhat stereotypical gay man without resorting to cliché or compromising the character’s individuality. In the process, he delivers a vibrant performance that makes him just about the leading contender for this year’s best actor Oscar, although I would personally give it to Mickey Rourke for The Wrestler (see Wrestling with the contradictions of fame, by David Berkley).

Milk’s life only really became interesting at the age of 40, which is appropriately where Milk picks it up. Attracted by the flourishing countercultural scene in San Francisco at the start of the 1970s, Milk and his toyboy lover Scott (played here by Heath Ledger lookalike James Franco as the masculine counterpoint to Penn’s camp flamboyance) swap coasts from their native New York. Eastside, Milk had been playing out a directionless and closeted life working in insurance. In Frisco, he sets up a camera shop in the Castro district.

Milk plays a pivotal role in transforming the working-class Castro into a burgeoning gay quarter, a haven for queers who have escaped their oppressing and depressing hometowns for the bright lights of the west coast. More by accident than design, he falls into politics in order to represent the people of the Castro who have come to see him as something approaching a father figure. He soon gets a taste for the political fight however, and persistence pays off when Milk is finally elected to public office at the fourth attempt in 1978. The film then follows Milk’s high-profile opposition to the homophobic Proposition Six, and his struggle to maintain a voice on the city board without compromising his ideals, which leads to tension with Dan White, a more conservative city supervisor.

Milk’s political work is always at odds, yet somehow in tandem with, the direct action that many of his younger cohorts instinctively tend towards. ‘Elections are just a bourgeois affectation’, sneers one such eloquent and uppity whippersnapper, Cleve Jones, before succumbing to recruitment by Milk’s campaign machine. Perhaps Milk’s greatest triumph was to succeed in neither obliterating this instinctual anger towards more direct action, nor letting it run riot (literally). Milk managed to find a way to channel the righteous rage of the oppressed minority into both the democratic process and into direct action in the form of marches and demonstrations, without letting it spill over into violence.

A good riot may let off some steam, but it does not necessarily endear your cause to the mainstream, or so the theory goes. In this respect Milk portrays its eponymous character as both a pragmatist and an effective metaphorical tightrope-walker, finding just the right balance between these twin yet opposing strategies in order that they may complement each other as a unified strategy to further a single goal.

Lest we need reminding, another leader from an oppressed minority has also recently been elected to public office in the United States. The African-American civil rights struggle used a similar two-pronged approach to achieve its successes. However, the comparisons between Harvey Milk and Barack Obama do not stretch much beyond this. Milk was elected almost solely on the votes of the limited demographic of the Castro, comprised almost entirely of the minority that he represented; Obama was elected by people from just about every social group you can imagine.

Nevertheless, in showing us the problems Milk was forced to confront and the compromises he was forced to make on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, Milk reminds us of the difficulties that lie in wait for anyone elected to represent the interests of a minority group or who runs on a single-issue ticket.

Milk is not without its faults. In concentrating so much on the political struggle of Milk and his followers, there is a sense in which the narrative of Milk’s clash with Dan White is overlooked, so that the ending, without wanting to give too much away, comes perhaps as more of a surprise than it should to anyone who doesn’t already know the story. There is however a whole other story surrounding this narrative that would merit a film in itself (though perhaps a sequel would be Milking It). To begin to include that story would, perhaps, have risked making Milk over-cluttered.

As it is, I recommend listening to San Francisco punk band the Dead Kennedys excellent re-working of ‘I Fought the Law’ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAdc2Rq9a4U) to fill in the gaps, if you can decipher the lyrics. Whether you agree or not, Milk is an affirmation of political activism.

Harry's holiday camp

Another article published in The Badger last year. This time a slightly tongue-in-cheek and irreverent take on Prince Harry's sojourn to Afghanistan, which ultimately has a serious point to make about the current and future state of the British monarchy. Again you can read it in all its published glory by clicking here and scrolling to page 8.



So it all becomes clear. As clear as an azure sky of deepest summer. We now know why pictures of Prince Harry tumbling out of the over-priced glorified school discos of London’s West End in the wee hours cavorting with public school blondes, or perhaps even sporting fascist regalia, have been conspicuously absent from our front pages in recent weeks. It seems that Hazza finally got his wish, and was shipped out to Afghanistan bearing the rather ominous sounding codename ‘Widow Six Seven’ to put his army training into practical use on the frontline, pitting his wits against Taliban insurgents in Helmand province in the south of the country, and ensuring safe passage in life for the good law-abiding civilians there, or whatever it is British soldiers are supposed to be doing.

Of course, the only reason he has been allowed to carry out the job for which he had been trained was due to a media ‘blackout’ – a sanitised synonym for censorship? – whereby the major elements of the British media were told about Harry’s deployment by the Ministry of Defence, and agreed to gag themselves in return for before, during and after Afghanistan interviews with our fair young prince, along with photographs and video footage, to be released on his return. There had been concerns that if his presence in Afghanistan was widely-known, this would put Harry’s immediate colleagues in greater danger than they would otherwise have faced, as the Taliban would presumably be keen to take a famous scalp and so focus their efforts on targeting the so called ‘bullet magnet’. As if Harry’s scarlet bouffant wasn’t target enough. Damn those Hewitt genes.

As it turned out though, his cover was eventually blown by US website The Drudge Report, infamous for their breaking of (often false, but occasionally not) salacious news stories, such as the Clinton-Lewinsky relationship (or non-relationship, depending on the finer points of your definition – happy Bill?), meaning that the prince has now been forced to return from his stint on the frontline a few weeks earlier than he had hoped for. Cursed Yanks.

Still, Harry at least got his time in the Afghan sun as a result of the co-operation of the British media. “I honestly don’t know what I miss at all. We’ve got music, light, food and drink….I haven’t had a shower for four days, haven’t washed my clothes for a week and everything feels normal” chortled the prince in said interviews, sounding more like an over-excited 12 year old on his first Boy Scouts’ camping trip away from home than a psychologically disturbed soldier of the Apocalypse Now variety, tortured by the ravages of war. The photographs and video footage released by the media over the last week tend to show Harry frolicking in the Afghan desert with his army buddies, playing a spot of football, or periscoping Rambo-style out of a tank complete with obligatory shades (cool), and generally looking like he’s having a whale of a time. The exhibition of such a carefree attitude may well be a reflection on the state of modern warfare of course, which has moved on a fair distance since Vietnam. The impersonality of killing afforded by technological advancement somewhat diminishes the horror of combat. This is not to suggest that British soldiers in Afghanistan do not face very real threats – of course they do, as the latest figure of 87 fatalities since 2001 testifies – but I think it is fair to assume that Harry will not be developing any form of posttraumatic stress disorder on his return. Besides which, the prince’s main task, which consisted of directing US fighter planes from the ground, does not seem to have put him directly in the line of fire, so to speak.

I suspect however that this does not account for much of Harry’s relaxed and contented demeanour on the frontline, the main reason for which can easily be spied if we dig a little deeper into those interviews. “It's very nice to be a normal person for once, I think this is about as normal as I'm ever going to get”, says Harry tellingly. The royals, with the sole exception of the Queen herself, have been completely subsumed into the celebrity culture which is the overriding feature of today’s society. In the public consciousness, there is no significant difference between Paris Hilton stumbling blind-drunk out of a nightclub, and the third-in-line to the throne doing the same. And why should there be? Paris and Harry essentially fulfil the same role in society – which is not to say they fulfil no role at all. Tranquilisation of the masses via the media of magazines, television etc. is of vital importance to the smooth running of our society. There is a difference between the two aforementioned characters however, which is that the former chose, even pursued her celebrity, whereas the latter has had his thrust upon him, and as it seems from his delight in the anonymity presented to him during his time in Afghanistan, quite enjoyed escaping from it. “I generally don't like England that much and it's nice to be away from all the press and the papers and al the general shite that they write” admits the prince. Strangely unpatriotic stuff, coming as it does from a man who could conceivably one day be King of the country he disparages. Not that Harry was entirely free from his celebrity out there. Indeed Major Andy Dimmock, Harry’s commanding officer, himself gushed: “It doesn’t matter who you are, the novelty factor is huge. There aren’t many people [who] can say they’ve seen a prince – never mind worked with a prince.” Still, the discipline required by army life and the considerable change in surroundings seems to have negated the standing Harry has back home, something which clearly suited him. It would not be too much of an exaggeration to describe the prince’s time in Afghanistan as a holiday, albeit a working one.

As mentioned before, the only member of the royal family exempt from the rule of celebrity is the Queen, who grew up and came to the throne before the onset of celebrity as a mass media phenomenon, and has since been cosseted from it in her position as monarch. Thus the Queen is the only, and certainly also the last, royal to possess the aura necessary to fulfil the task required of the type of sovereign we have in this country. For this necessitates a certain distance, aloofness even, and neutrality of perception which no other royals could ever hope to acquire given their statuses as essentially celebrities, and nothing more. For celebrity inevitably entails that the nation will always form some view, more often than not a pejorative one, on their characters, which is incompatible with a position of monarch. So when the current incumbent passes on (probably not for another good twenty years to be fair, due to the longevity granted by luxurious living and the very best healthcare), it is hard to see where the monarchy will go, or what purpose it will serve, if any.

'Why I voted yes...'

An older article published last year in Sussex student paper The Badger, written in support of the principles of free speech on campus. Click here and scroll down to page 7 to see it in its published context and amuse yourself at how superior it is to the 'Why I voted no..' article below it (although I'm sure you'll agree, Olly Laughland is a marvellous name).

As anyone who takes enough interest in campus life to pick up a copy of The Badger, and perhaps even read some of the fantastically well written articles concealed within, will no doubt
be aware there was a vote a couple of weeks back - a referendum in which every student at the university was able to cast a ballot. The purpose of this poll, was to answer the question: “This union should allow anyone to be invited to speak at Sussex University, within UK law.” (Not actually a question of course, as those of you who are as pernickety about syntax as I am will have spotted. We’ll call it a proposal from now on, or something similar.)

Now, clearly, the answer that was going to be returned by the student population of Sussex, or by virtually any student population in the UK for that matter, was a resounding ‘no.’ As my dad would say, with one of his characteristically less -than-politically-correct catchphrases, ‘it was so obvious a blind man could see it.’ This is because the proposal means that any old radical speaker or group could potentially be invited and given a platform to air their views at our University and in particular the groups that really concern the run-ofthe- mill left-leaning student, far right organisations, of which the biggestand most infamous is the British National Party (BNP). However I, in what you might call a token gesture given the inevitability of the result (I might be tempted to call it a matter of principle), ticked the ‘yes’ box,for reasons I wish to explain in this article.

So I suppose the essence of my reason for voting against type, being something of a lefty student myself,was that grand-sounding concept of free speech - itself something of a traditional lefty notion. Essentially, it is impossible to get away from the fact that the only reason people would not want the BNP and their ilk to come and speak at the university is that they disagree with their views. An anonymous author writing against the proposal in The Badger attempts to paint the issue as not being a matter of freedom of speech, but as one of preventing propagation of violent views. However, one should notice the all-important final three words of the proposal – ‘within UK law.’ Now, I’m no lawyer admittedly, but as I understand it UK law explicitly forbids incitement of violence, and this is indeed the only restriction on free speech in our country. Whether the BNP do promote violence is another matter, but if they did they would be flouting UK law and the proviso tagged on the end of the proposal would come into play, allowing the refusal of the right to speak on these grounds. Hence the argument against allowing anyone to speak on concerns of violence doesn’t carry any weight with me. Without wishing to cite an over used-to-the-point-of-cliché Voltaire quotation, freedom of speech must apply to all views, however detestable ‘reasonable’ people find then, otherwise it is simply not free.

Likewise all the other arguments I have heard from the ‘no’ camp seem weak to me. One which at first appeared to me as most potent was put forward by a friend of mine, who made the case that a blanket notion of freedom of speech assumes a level playing field which is not there in reality. The minorities spoken against by far-right organisations may not have the means or opportunities to respond and defend themselves. On these grounds he claimed, groups such as the BNP should be prohibited from talking on campus. However, this seems to me a very pessimistic way to approach the issue. If the situation is indeed as described above, then surely the way forward is to ensure that the minorities in question, or anyone else who feels strongly about the matter, are given sufficient platform and every opportunity to express their views in response – to offer the power of freedom of speech to all parties, not to level down and deny the freedom to everybody. If one truly does believe in democracy, one has to believe that the ‘correct’ view will win come through at the end of the debate.

‘No’ campaigners worry that allowing the BNP to speak would only serve to give them added publicity. However, what gives controversial groups real publicity is not permitting them to express their views, but in fact it is the very debate we are have had over the last few weeks, and the over-the-top protests against them. One only has to look at what happened when BNP leader Nick Griffin was invited to speak at the prestigious Oxford Union last year. The reason this became headline news was not the invitation itself, but the rabble of protestors who clamoured outside the debating chamber, chanting antifascist slogans. It was their actions that caused the furore, and meant that Griffin’s face and opinions found their way onto the evening news, a bonus not usually afforded to speakers at the Oxford Union. Banning such people only gives them more perceived injustices to shout about, and heightens their persecution complex further, giving them more ammunition as they attempt to drum up support for their extreme views. Nick Griffin will no doubt now claim something to the effect that: ‘the University of Sussex wouldn’t let us speak, because they know we have valid points.’ Francis Bacon said that “the punishing of wits enhances their authority and a forbidden writing is thought to be a certain spark of truth that flies up in the faces of them that seek to tread it out.” Gagging the BNP could well have such an effect on many people in our society.

However, one thing that seems to have been overlooked in this entire debate is that the people most likely to be susceptible to the insidious yet transparent bile spouted by the BNP are not the educated and (on the whole) middle-class student population, who (hopefully) have the ability to think for themselves. Campuses throughout the country have always been and will always be for the most part left-leaning, and even if the BNP were permitted to stage a full-on recruitment drive on the library steps they would not find a great deal of success. Where the BNP’s message does find support is in deprived and neglected areas of the country, the Barkings and Bradfords, places where people are all too often under-educated, under-valued and under-represented. The rush to the centre ground by all the major political parties in pursuit of votes and their
refusal to take seriously the concerns of people in these areas have created a vacuum which groups such as the BNP are attempting to exploit. It is the desperation of people in such locations that causes them to be taken in by radicalism and is the issue that needs to be tackled if the recent rise in popularity for the BNP is to stop. If we are serious about preventing a popularity surge, we should be putting our effort into understanding the frustrations of those in areas of the country which turn to the BNP, and educating and improving their quality of life and prospects, not wasting energy blustering about whether Griffin and his cronies should be allowed on to leafy, sedate university campuses.

If the University of Sussex really wants to make a difference in the battle against fascism, its students need to address the issues raised by the BNP and their popularity and work out the best way to combat them, not bury our heads in the sand and hope the problem will go away. Listening to such people speak and remaining detached and analytical whilst doing so is in fact the best way to understand the appeal of radicalism to others, and thus to finding a way to defeat themin the long run.

Uncanny isn't it....

I couldn't have been the only one who, upon first hearing the news that Tom Cruise would be starring in a film about the (failed, obviously) plot to assassinate Hitler, felt more than a frisson of excitement: "Tom Cruise....Hitler....a stroke of pure casting genius!!", was my initial reaction. But alas, it soon transpired than the diminutive, delusional megalomaniac with some dodgy ideas and a mad glint in his eye would not be playing the Führer, but his would-be assassin. Talk about a missed opportunity. Valkyrie is out in cinemas throughout the UK as we speak, but it's probably shit.

Wrestling with the contradictions of fame

Review of The Wrestler, also published, along with many other great articles, in online magazine spiked. Click here to see it in its original form. And go and see The Wrestler before it's too late.

If it is true that the best performances are given by actors who truly ‘live’ the character they portray, then Mickey Rourke surely deserves the Oscar nomination he received yesterday for his titular performance in Darren Aronofsky’s The Wrestler.

In the film, the superficial, yet high-drama world of ‘professional’ (read ‘staged’) wrestling serves as a backdrop (pun intended) to examine the delusion and disillusionment of someone who used to be a somebody, and who is perpetually striving to recapture the elusive and ephemeral state that is fame, and the adulation that comes with it.
Although it is unclear how many chokeslams he delivered or dropkicks he had received prior to beginning filming, the parallels between Rourke and his character Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson are well-documented and striking.

Like Rourke, The Ram is well past his prime – about 20 years or so – having frittered away his early success on the all-too-common triumvirate of temptations: drink, drugs and women. Like Rourke, his years in the wilderness now mean his ‘comeback’ attempts are inevitably restricted to low-budget, gritty affairs with lower pay and less glamour than he was once accustomed to. And like Rourke, it is the nefarious, phony world in which he plies his trade that leaves him disillusioned and his personal life in tatters. In Randy’s case, that involves a daughter who hates his guts and an inability to keep up the rent on the pokey trailer in which he lives alone. Indeed, one could view Rourke’s entire life up until this film as one long, rigorous preparation for the role of The Ram.

And it shows. Rourke truly does inhabit his character in a way that I can recall few other actors doing. As a macho, steroid-injecting, testosterone-fuelled professional wrestler, The Ram is not especially adept at discussing trivial, sentimental issues like emotions and feelings, yet the depth and subtlety of Rourke’s performance and the tortured, divided nature of the character’s existence mean that mere dialogue is neither necessary nor sufficient to convey such complexities.

From sleeping in the back of his car through to wrestling exhibitions and jaunts to strip clubs, we follow the poignant, tragicomic existence of the ageing and gnarled Ram as he attempts to get both his life and career back on track – to re-establish a relationship with his estranged daughter and to make it to a potentially lucrative (by the standards he is now used to at least) re-match with his auld enemy from his Eighties heyday, the headdress-wearing, Iranian flag-waving ‘Ayatollah’ (real name: Bob). This despite doctor’s orders to retire after suffering a heart attack following a surprisingly gruesome amateur fight.


By now, the once-great Randy the Ram works shifting boxes and serving behind the deli counter in a soulless supermarket during the week - his bulging biceps and rough features laughably incongruous with daintily dishing out pasta and cold meats, wearing an apron and his long, dyed-blonde locks trussed up in a hairnet. During the weekends, he fights for next-to-nothing to handful-strong crowds of local fans. Along the way, his relationship with stripper Pam (Marisa Tomei) develops into something more complicated than the standard paying customer-service provider protocol. Pam and The Ram both put their bodies on the line in order to make a living, and it is perhaps this that draws them together.

Like many in our celebrity-obsessed age, where the public gaze is ubiquitous and all-important, Randy seems incapable of carving out his own identity or seeing himself as anything other than what others make of him: his public persona, ‘The Ram’. He bristles whenever anyone calls him by his real name, Robin Ramsinzski. He instead views himself vicariously through the eyes of his cheering, whooping knucklehead fans, chanting for him to execute his signature move, ‘The Ramjam’ – a diving head butt from the top rope, with elbows extended above his head to simulate The Ram’s horns - and he seems concerned only with satisfying them, to the detriment of his personal relationships.

In a recent documentary following the latest failed attempt of alcoholic ex-England footballer Paul Gascoigne (known as ‘Gazza’ to the nation) to regain control over his life, his stepson Mason proclaimed with simple eloquence: ‘If you turned to him and asked “who are you?” the best he could come up with is “Gazza”.’ (See Gazza as metaphor, by Tim Black.) Substitute ‘The Ram’ for ‘Gazza’ here and the observation remains just as valid for Rourke’s character.
Even when he finally appears to be flourishing as Robin Ramzinski, putting his skills as a showman to good use while charming the old ladies at the deli counter, fate intervenes when he is recognised as Randy the Ram. Unable to reconcile his public and private self, in a pique of frustration and despair at where the dichotomy has led him, Randy jams his hand into the meat slicer and quits his job, vowing to come out of retirement and take up the re-match against The Ayatollah.

If the expertly crafted slice of cinema that is The Wrestler could or should be reduced to a corny morality message, it would read something like ‘be true to yourself before anybody else’. But in the match-up between The Ram and Robin Ramzinski, there was only ever going to be one winner.

Given his own backstory and the resulting resonant pathos, Rourke’s magnificent performance will rightly continue to garner him praise and perhaps even an Oscar that very few would begrudge him. Yet to make this the sole focus of any analysis of the film would be to do The Wrestler and its many interesting and intermingling themes a disservice.

In Support of Obama

Rather you than me. Good luck old chum.