Sweet Child of Mine

I went to New York City once and saw a play with Edward Norton, called Burn This!. It was so powerful, so mood-altering, so soul-shaking, that I couldn't speak for a couple of hours after I left the theater. I loved that feeling - the feeling that art can change you.

Last night I saw The Wrestler. Now, Mickey Rourke is no friend of mine. The only movie I ever saw him in was 9 1/2 Weeks, which I had to watch for a feminist film class. That was awful. I still get shivers when I think about it. Ick. Ick. No, I actually avoided watching any Mickey Rourke films after that.

But when I heard about The Wrestler and I heard about how sad and alone Mickey Rourke actually was in real life, I felt compelled to watch it. The way he thanked his dog in his Golden Globe speech, the way his face, broken and ill-repaired, displayed a hopeful smile. I had to watch his comeback.

It was a beautiful movie. Parts of it difficult to watch, graphic, bloody-wise, but it was integral to the character building - to show how damaged he was. A flawed and gentle character, who tried and failed at relationships. I could not stop crying when it was over. I felt stunned and awed by the performances. And I felt changed by it.