Gazing on Mickey Rourke’s wrecked visage in “The Wrestler,” opening nationally on Thursday, it’s almost impossible to recall the soft-featured raconteur of “Diner” or the sexual provocateur of “9 1/2 Weeks.” Yet there he lies underneath 20 years of wear and tear in Darren Aronofsky’s opus, hinting an unfulfilled promise at the camera as he pines for a woman any director would have thrown at him two decades earlier.
“Unfulfilled” isn’t quite the right word: “Unrecognized” is a better fit. The celebrity media has taken to tarring Mr. Rourke as just another Sunset Boulevard burnout, an actor who hit the skids and turned to drugs. Those critics stopped paying attention around 1996 or so. In the meantime, Mr. Rourke has been quietly turning in solid performances and has carved a new niche for himself - the hardened tough guy.
In the first half of the ’80s, Mr. Rourke made his bones as a sensitive, manipulative lady’s man: He had the same smoldering sex appeal that had turned the world on to Marlon Brando. His charm came from a different place, however; whereas Mr. Brando was the wounded brute (Stanley Kowalski in “A Streetcar Named Desire,” Terry Malloy in “On the Waterfront”) Mr. Rourke’s magnetism came from his sublime confidence.
Watching “9 1/2 Weeks” again, one is struck by the level of command exerted by Mr. Rourke as he bends Kim Basinger to his will during their twisted courtship. It’s the little things that put him in control, and control is the key; there isn’t a moment in this film when we question who is the master on-screen. That skill masses behind his eyes. With a look - a downward glance, a tic of the eyebrows - he moves grown men and women to do his bidding, and the audience buys it.
The self-confidence projected by Mr. Rourke was the key. He’s an irresistible charmer, someone with whom you can’t help but sympathize emotionally even as, intellectually, you know he’s an untrustworthy lout.
Remember his myriad transgressions with the fairer sex as Boogie in “Diner” - his illicit use of a popcorn tub and the seduction of a good friend’s wife to win a bet, for starters. Audiences were put in the odd position of condemning Boogie’s actions while secretly hoping he succeeded. This was Mickey Rourke’s power.
It was a power he let go to waste for most of the decade that followed “9 1/2 Weeks.” He chose poor roles in awful movies, playing a blurry facsimile of his former self, a copy of a copy. He sabotaged his career by becoming a menace on the set (and the Hell’s Angels he employed as bodyguards didn’t help matters). He took up boxing, working out his frustrations in the ring - and busting up his face in the process.
Now it’s no longer the characters he’s portraying that look like copies of copies. The man himself is no longer recognizable.
In many ways, the new Mickey Rourke is the antithesis of the old Mickey Rourke; the broken bones and smashed-up face more closely resemble a leather muppet than the smooth-talking, slightly feminine charmer of years gone by.
The subtleties of the facial mannerisms fled long ago: It’s impossible to imagine the hulk projected in front of us seducing Miss Basinger with the twitch of a smile or a pursed lip.
Nevertheless, his eyes still betray the power within. Whether they’re projecting weary, tired sadness, as they did in “Once Upon a Time in Mexico,” or frustration at a world gone mad, as they did in “Sin City,” or the profound loneliness that comes with vanished stardom, as they do in “The Wrestler,” Mr. Rourke’s eyes remain as supple as ever.
The resurrection of Mickey Rourke has been something to watch, if a little slow in the offing. Gone is the pretty boy with a hint of danger. The goliath who stands before us now is a dangerous man hinting at the tortured soul within. Few others could have breathed life into Marv, the street tough with a heart of gold in “Sin City,” as Mr. Rourke did.
The growling menace that wafts from his cigarette-ravaged throat lets you know he’s not a man to be trifled with, but his gaze softens in the company of his women.
The indie darling “Spun” highlighted Mr. Rourke’s talents to great effect. Though not a great movie - it’s a funnier, less consequential version of “Requiem for a Dream” - Mr. Rourke’s turn as the Cook is memorable for its nuance.
While the rest of the ensemble (which includes Jason Schwartzman, Brittany Murphy and John Leguizamo) ham it up, the Cook sits back with a quiet calm (and ever-present threat) that makes him the only character worth watching.
In his return to the screen, we again see hints of Mr. Brando; though unrecognizable to the audience, the technique remains solidly in place. Mr. Rourke retains the power he once had, even if it comes from a different source. With “The Wrestler,” Mr. Rourke is almost guaranteed to nab his first Academy Award nomination, and for good reason: His performance is nothing short of stunning, a feat no one would have guessed possible 20 years ago. It has been a long time coming.
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