I try not to walk out of movie theatres, always hoping to see at least one or two redeeming features which will mercifully let me think I have not entirely wasted two hours of my life and my money.
Last night would have easily been the first time I walked out of the cinema. Sadly, there was no movie theatre which could be ostentatiously quit! Not even any popcorn crumbs to crunch into the carpet on the way in an attempt to wake the fellow viewers from their stupour.
It was in the peace and comfort of our own home that we watched 'The Wrestler', an unshapely piece of movie junk, floating across the puddle of last year's Hollywood movies.
Usually, when upon checking your watch you realise you're already two thirds through the movie, and there is no clear indication that it is going somewhere else than the first 10 minutes of it suggests, I'd say it's a pretty bad sign. I checked my watch after the first quarter of an hour, forty minutes in, halfway through it, and many, many times more. And every time I paused to wonder why on earth would anyone be willing to put forward money to sponsor a lengthy attempt at explaining why being a muscled, bleached blonde loser is better than just being any other kind of loser.
I don't understand any of the hype that Rourke's and Tomei's performances are garnering. Two stick figurines of a finished wrestler and a stripper with the heart of gold? Boring, oh, so boring. I wriggled and winced my way through the painful, predictable last quarter of the movie. I don't think you could even possibly write a review containing a spoiler for this flick. There is nothing to spoil here. If you have seen at least three movies in your life, you will know straight away where this is all going.
Last night would have easily been the first time I walked out of the cinema. Sadly, there was no movie theatre which could be ostentatiously quit! Not even any popcorn crumbs to crunch into the carpet on the way in an attempt to wake the fellow viewers from their stupour.
It was in the peace and comfort of our own home that we watched 'The Wrestler', an unshapely piece of movie junk, floating across the puddle of last year's Hollywood movies.
Usually, when upon checking your watch you realise you're already two thirds through the movie, and there is no clear indication that it is going somewhere else than the first 10 minutes of it suggests, I'd say it's a pretty bad sign. I checked my watch after the first quarter of an hour, forty minutes in, halfway through it, and many, many times more. And every time I paused to wonder why on earth would anyone be willing to put forward money to sponsor a lengthy attempt at explaining why being a muscled, bleached blonde loser is better than just being any other kind of loser.
I don't understand any of the hype that Rourke's and Tomei's performances are garnering. Two stick figurines of a finished wrestler and a stripper with the heart of gold? Boring, oh, so boring. I wriggled and winced my way through the painful, predictable last quarter of the movie. I don't think you could even possibly write a review containing a spoiler for this flick. There is nothing to spoil here. If you have seen at least three movies in your life, you will know straight away where this is all going.