Striving for an intimate documentary tone via hand held camera that relentlessly follows Mickey Roarke around and dives deep into detail, Darren Aronofsky manages to elevate The Wrestler beyond its cliché bound narrative—the aging sports figure going for a final round. Another crowd pleasing rendition of Rocky Balboa crossing over to professional wrestling arenas would have been an easy formula to adopt; fortunately, Aronofsky shoots for a more profound character study that hits its mark. Not that it's a great film, but it's certainly effective.

The strength of the film rests firmly on Roarke's bulked up shoulders and upper torso (he added 30+ lbs. of muscle for the role). Changing body mass this radically for such a one character vehicle is the stuff that Oscar nomination dreams are made of. Getting noticed scores big with Academy voters, so chalk up one of the five slots for Roarke on this comeback effort as Randy "the Ram" Robinson, whose heyday took place during the 1980s. Now he continues as a weekend warrior, hustling area school gyms for a percentage of the gate—living in a rundown trailer (when not locked out for non-payment) and working at a New Jersey grocery for a sarcastic little Napoleon boss (Todd Barry).

The best thing the film does is capture the atmosphere and paint the milieu of professional wrestling. Most everyone realizes that the overhyped theatrics are fake, and the film underscores this in the locker room where the wrestling brotherhood standards are well established as their fight scenarios. (There's a limited number of good vs. evil plots that rile up the crowds) BUT the film also clearly demonstrates that these men remain true athletes, who literally torture their bodies in preparation and who do shed real blood in the ring and inevitably bear scars from the forks, barbed wire, staple guns, and shattered glass that they subject themselves to.

It's a brutal world—a lonely world that locks Randy to his glory days. Underscored by various 80s metal bands, Randy desires to remain in that era—he still has his tired old Nintendo game set up in his trailer. He's continually fighting to maintain his body—via steroids and pain killers, weight training regimen, styling his blonde mane, and regular tanning salon sessions. When his body rebels to threaten his weekend routine of body slams and high flying ram jams, the void is palpable.

The Ram seeks solace at a strip club with Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), who recognizes that this customer is on the verge of breaking down. She too has been considering a life change, and cautiously ventures beyond her business code to lend assistance. Tomei deserves credit for fleshing out her character, but the role may not be large enough for a supporting nod. Less effective is Evan Rachel Wood's overwrought work as Randy's estranged daughter Stephanie.

But the film clearly belongs to Rourke, and this role will gain him plenty of recognition. Long regarded as a fine actor, Rourke has mostly played supporting roles and was notorious for partying too hard to be trusted—although that worked to advantage in Barfly. Barely recognizable in The Wrestler with puffy, beat up face and buffed up body, he thrives in Aronofsky's environment that allows him to improvise in the delicatessen scenes with real customers and in the locker rooms with real wrestlers. Rourke also works intensely at getting totally into character to choreograph the wrestling moves and naturally communicate the tiny nuances he's famous for. Thus, while the movie treads a predictable plot line, it gives an intimate insider view to the world of professional wrestling and vividly paints a portrait of a man struggling to cope with transition.