Iron Man 2

Iron Man says 'Practice safe sex'

Grade: B –

Director: Jon Favreau

Starring: Robert Downey Jr., Don Cheadle, Gwyneth Paltrow, Scarlett Johansson, Sam Rockwell, Mickey Rourke, and Samuel L. Jackson

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 2 hours, 5 minutes

If Iron Man was a phallic embodiment of the United States' single-minded crusade to impose a Pax Americana at the point of a spear, then the Tony Stark in Iron Man 2 is most aptly viewed as a metaphor of his own. The bajillionaire protector we meet in the sequel has fully assumed the qualities of the proverbial Ugly American, exuding the arrogance and entitlement of Uncle Sam as the world's unaccountable enforcer.

Here, Stark dons sunglasses and blows dismissive kisses at a Congressional committee bent on bullying him into relinquishing his ferrous-plated super suit. "I am Iron Man; Iron Man is me," he declares to the Senate subcommittee. It may as well be Robert Downey Jr. making that claim, for while multiple actors have capably portrayed Superman and Batman on the screen over the years, it is nearly impossible to imagine anyone other than Downey as Tony Stark.

Congress questions Stark out of concern for the country's increasing dependence on him to the exclusion of an increasingly irrelevant military industrial complex; not coincidentally, the politicos are also sniffing around for ways to exploit him before external enemies do. These are provocative issues, even if the notion of escalation in the face of an omnipotent superhero was explored to much greater effect in Christopher Nolan's Batman films. Problem is, they are all brought to bear inside the first 15 minutes of Iron Man 2. The remainder of its clunky, two-hour-plus running time is spent sidewinding through a series of bullets, bombs, babes and disjointed plot points.

Escalation begins before the opening credits in the form of tattooed, vodka-swilling Ivan Vanko (Mickey Rourke), a Russian stereotype who speaks in three-word sentences and whose unexplained rage against the Stark family leads him to construct a plasmatic lash he intends to lay to Iron Man. Rourke's two battle scenes bookend a performance that mostly features him furiously tapping on computer keyboards. More significantly, he is one of two barely realized baddies whose narrative impotence emphasizes Iron Man 2's violation of rule No. 1 for successful action films: the presence of a compelling, imposing villain.

Vanko's partner in evil is Justin Hammer (Sam Rockwell), a rival weapons contractor with aims on developing and outfitting the military with its own high-tech wardrobe. Rockwell, normally a durable actor, misplays Hammer with an exaggerated cartoonish affect that wears out its welcome after two scenes. Add to that mix Stark's encroaching mortality, daddy issues and Stark's increasingly erratic behavior and heavy drinking that prompts his military buddy, Rhoadey (Dan Cheadle, replacing Terrence Howard without the audience batting an eye), to commandeer one of Iron Man's suits, a precursor to his eventual transformation into the sidekick War Machine. Oh, and don't forget Scarlett Johansson's role as shapely Natasha, Stark's newest personal assistant and acrobatic woman of mystery. Even still, the series' backbone remains Downey's wiseacre high wire act, particularly his banter with his Girl Friday, Pepper Potts (a fine Gwyneth Paltrow).

The worst moment in Iron Man 2 finds a drunken, costumed Stark rampaging through his own birthday party. It's a scene worthy of a bad comic book-movie parody, and it underscores the film's fundamental problem—its excessive jokiness. The first Iron Man's levity rested with Downey's bravura performance and director Jon Favreau's fanboy sensibilities. What's different this time out is the screenwriting is handled by seemingly kindred spirit Justin Theroux (Tropic Thunder) rather than Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby (best known for Children of Men), a decision that enabled the sequel's flaws. Iron Man was a popcorn movie that dared to succeed during an era of brooding movie heroism. Its sequel suffers not only by comparison but also due to its strained efforts to please an audience now hip to its hipness.

Neil Morris

*Originally published at http://www.indyweek.com/indyweek/iron-man-ramps-up-the-camp-but-falls-flat/Content?oid=1411907

The Wrestler

Mickey Rourke impersonates his recent career trajectory

Grade: A
Director: Darren Aronofsky
Starring: Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei, and Evan Rachel Wood
MPAA Rating: R
Running Time: 1 hour, 55 minutes

In The Wrestler, a down and out bum grasps for one more shot at glory. The seemingly small but significant difference between director Darren Aronofsky’s new film and similarly situated films like The Champ, Rocky, and Cinderella Man is that boxing carries an esteem that professional wrestling lacks. Boxing is known as the "sweet science," fought under the "Marquis of Queensbury" rules, and popularized by culturally and politically transcendent figures such as Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, and Muhammad Ali.

By contrast, the most prevalent remark made about pro wrestling is, "You know it's fake." It is popular among its rabid devotees; otherwise, it carries a stigma of being silly, trashy, and degrading. Some call the spectacle a "soap opera for men,” but perhaps the better label is "performance art.” The stagecraft in pro wrestling is predetermined, and the characters and storylines are written and choreographed for the viewers' pleasure. There is another vocation that also fits this description: Acting.

The Wrestler is foremost a character study of an aging grappler, Randy "The Ram" Robinson, played with raw authenticity by Mickey Rourke. However, under Aronofsky’s brilliant direction, the film itself becomes its own kind of performance art with a connecting thread that weaves the subject-matter, plot, characters, and actors into a seamless tapestry.

Aronofsky's prestige as a director was already cemented after the release of his 2000 tour de force, Requiem for a Dream. For The Wrestler, Aronofsky dials back his trademark visual flourishes for a gritty depiction of loss: of youth, fame, family, and, yes, dreams. Once the most popular wrestler in the country, Randy is now a relic living in near-poverty who spends his workweek stocking shelves at a grocery store in his rural Jersey hometown. Whereas Randy once fought before sold-out audiences in Madison Square Garden, he now spends his weekends scrapping for scratch at local armories and high school gyms.

After an especially brutal match accompanied by glass shards, metal staples, and barbed wire, Randy suffers a heart attack that forces him to hang up his tights and cancel an upcoming rematch against his former MSG foe, the Ayatollah (real name Bob, now a used car salesman). Facing a new reality, Randy attempts to advance his relationship with a local stripper, Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), and reconnect with his estranged daughter, Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood).

The real-life parallels between character and actor are striking and likely intentional. Aronofsky risked cancellation of this film project with his insistence on casting Rourke, because producers and financiers were reluctant to invest in the notoriously tempestuous and evidently washed-up actor. As it turns out, Rourke visage bears the scars of real-life amateur boxing, botched plastic surgeries, and hard-living like a mask, doubling for Randy's years of ring injuries and steroid abuse. Like Randy, this is Rourke's attempt to recapture faded glory, and the end result is sensational. Rourke compliments extremely physical wrestling scenes - no stunt-work here, even when Randy must cut himself to draw blood during a fight - with intimate moments of charm, sensitivity, and vulnerability.

Cassidy does not turn the heads of younger customers as she once did, much like the now 40-something Tomei finds herself losing roles to a younger crop of actresses. And, Wood's own strained relationship with her father, Raleigh playwright and actor Ira David Wood, undoubtedly informed her brief, but spot-on performance here. When a tired and hurt Stephanie finally tells Randy, "I don’t love you; I don’t even like you. There is no more fixing this; it’s broke…permanently," the line practically crackles with verisimilitude. (Wood has been quoted as saying this role was a kind of "paid therapy" that led her to recently reconnect with her dad).

Fact meets thinly-veiled fiction throughout The Wrestler, never more than a bar-scene during which the pall over Randy and Cassidy's lives is temporarily lifted to the strains of Ratt's "Round and Round" playing on the jukebox. "F****n' 80's man, best s**t ever!", exclaims Cassidy. "Bet'chr ass man," says Randy. "I'll tell you somethin', I hate the f****n' 90's."

Unable to cope with life outside the squared circle, the film's finale manages to be both tragic and inspirational, hitting you like a 'Ram Jam' to the solar plexus. Whether you call it the rebirth of Rourke or Requiem for the '80s, The Wrestler has all the right moves. "They don't make em' like they used to," laments Randy/Rourke. Bet'chr ass, man.

Neil Morris