The Wrestler ★★★★½

The journey to perfection that drives us can often become a disturbing vessel for self-destruction, and in Aronofsky's eyes it is always a guaranteed occurrence within an art-form. In the process of constructing art, these characters always dig themselves into deeper holes of burning bridges and (sometimes literally) piercing failure, shifting every now and then from a slowly faltering dance to--as displayed here--a gushing, pulsating, throbbing, torn open gash that bleeds not a drop of our vital life cells but the product of our pursuit for the complete conquest of our craft. Aronofsky consistently reveals self-tortured artists in the most unexpected of places, and I will always be here for it. A

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