Why am I soft in the middle (when) the rest of my life is so hard…or…The Return of the Motorcycle Boy

It is Oscar time and I confess to being more than a little distracted by the pending festivities. There are no Oscar parties on the horizon and I am not really that inclined to sit and wince through the acceptance speeches that are always the same. The red carpet waltz as the stars arrive doesn’t really interest me, except perhaps to see whether Angelie Jolie decides to wear her haute couture outfit back to front as she did (reportedly) at another recent awards ceremony. And I also admit that I am bemused at the choice of Hugh Jackman as compere. This decision prompted the previous host, Jon Stewart from the Daily Show, to declare that the awards must have been cancelled because he hadn’t got the call asking him to do the gig. So I am not sure how our Hugh will fare. Undoubtedly I would have preferred Jon Stewart’s smart arse Yonkers banter. As to the films nominated? I confess that I have only seen three of the films that are in the running. Loved Sean Penn in “Milk”, but then it is hard to find a dud in his cv (perhaps with the exception of his marriage to Madonna). Also enjoyed “Slumdog Millionaire” though I am not sure that it is the BIG picture that everyone is declaring. There seems to be something of a controversy circulating also that the film’s producer/directors exploited the young kids who appear in the film. But then that may well be down to the Machiavellian mud-slinging of the studios as they jostle to get their horses across the line. Which brings me to the heart of the matter, so to speak. It is all about the return of Mickey Rourke.

Bouncing back into contention, like Sly Stallone in Rockys 1,2,3,4 etc. He is back in the game. I am so glad to see Mickey Rourke back up on the big screen and nominated for a little nude gold guy for the “Wrestler”. From the moment that I saw him in “Rumblefish” I was convinced he was the next big thing. I still watch Keifer Sutherland running around on the tv show “24” and see the less-talented and not as good looking version of Mickey. Then there was the work that Mickey did in “Diner” and “Pope of Greenwich Village” which confirmed, for me, that he was going to be the next big thing. Of course subsequent films didn’t really bear out such rosy-cheeked exuberance. I went to see “Year of the Dragon” and squirmed throughout it, conscious of the glares from the other people who had come along on my say so. After that “Angel Heart” left you thinking that it had channeled a David Lynch episode of “Twin Peaks”. I am sure de Niro would happily lift that one from his resume. It could also be argued that this film outing was the career choice that put Lisa Bonet’s acting career into something of a terminal tail-spin, but I stand to be corrected on that one. But you get my drift. I am not even going to touch the execrable duo of 9 ½ weeks and Wild Orchard – oh well, yes I am, because 9 ½ weeks is also to blame for Joe Cocker’s wailing like a banshee “You Can Leave Your Hat On”. So Mickey disappeared into the back blocks of LA to take up boxing, and turning his back (reportedly) on a number of big ticket item roles in films like The Untouchables, The Rain Man, Platoon and 48 Hours. It was during this phase that, by all accounts, Mickey took too many punches, lost all his money and looks and took to shacking up in a run down place in LA with his pet Chihuahua. After a number of small roles in films over the years, though, we finally have his triumphant return. Cue to the sound of “Hail to the Chief” that they play usually for the arrival of the President.

For ages I thought I was the only one who had this faith in Mickey Rourke –a bit like being an English Football supporter whose team are in the Fourth Division and are absolute rubbish – but who never stops believing. One good thing about the blogging is that you find out there in the depths of cyber space other people with the same delusions or obsessions as yourself. I mean you could never enter a conversation about film with people at a party and offer up “well I think Mickey Rourke’s work in 9 ½ weeks is critically underrated” without people either calling you a cab or moving nervously away. It would not fly and I have to hastily add that my going in to bat for Mickey has never managed to stretch so far as to try and justify his worst work. At the wonderful blog “The House Next Door” (go to: www.thehousenextdooronline.com/ ) there is a really nice take on the return of Mickey and the numerous comments make me realize that I am not alone in my love affair with Mickey. An article in Salon by Cintra Wilson reflects on the appeal of Mickey as being down to the fact that she had “never seen a male movie star the compellingly enigmatic sexual equivalent of Mickey Rourke as "the Motorcycle Boy." I am not sure what it is about Mickey that makes me think of him as the great couldabeen champion. Admittedly he would never have had the depth and range that Sean Penn has showed, but he had real, big screen charisma of a type that pretty-boy Tom Cruise could only dream about and Richard Gere could never approach. And he was the bad boy when you get so many sanitized boring actors.

Of course there is the down side to Mickey’s return, what we might term the clouds around the sunshine. The damage done by the boxing and the botched plastic surgery, and reportedly too much bad liquor, leaves the star of “The Wrestler” barely recognizable as the smouldering screen presence that first roared across the big screen as the Motorcycle Boy. When I saw the first publicity pictures I presumed it was make up. How else could Mickey Rourke suddenly resemble both the character Hell Boy and the actor who plays Hell Boy, Ron Perlman? No disrespect intended to Mr Perlman or, for that matter, Hell Boy. It is just that Mickey with his sardonic, wrinkled smile personified a latter day James Dean. During the Wrestler there are glimpses of the trademark wistful melancholy smile, but for the main it is puffed up lips and scarred face.Now he gets to strut his stuff again…which brings me to the Paul Simon lyric at the top from the song “You Can Call Me Al”.

A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard
I need a photo-opportunity
I want a shot at redemption
Don't want to end up a cartoon
In a cartoon graveyard

So Mickey gets the shot at redemption, but in avoiding being a burned out has-been, mumbling (like his Bukowski character in Bar Fly) something along Brando’s famous line that “I coulda been a contender”, there is bitter-sweet irony to it all. Mickey is back, he’s a contender but it is some sort of Faustian deal because he ends up looking like a cartoon character, even if he has delayed the trip to the cartoon graveyard. So I hope Mickey wins, though I suspect Sean Penn’s role will triumph. I want to go back to my DVD’s of Rumblefish and remember a Mickey Rourke who didn’t support George Bush, carry around a yappy little dog and act as though he was still in character as a wrestler. But you still gotta love him.

All of which has brought me to reflect on what it means when you realize you are getting old. You no longer snigger when you hear the Who lyric that demands: “hope I die before I get old” or scoff at the Rolling Stones performing and refer to them as the “Strolling Bones”. At the risk of sounding like a scratched record (an allusion which of itself dates me) I am returning to the ruminations on getting older…perhaps it’s the impending celebration (!!) of another birthday. Sorry to my friend Chris from Bowral who has endured this rant before, but it has come home with increased poignancy in recent times with a number of things, beginning with the realization that after a few weeks in the Oval Office Obama (same year of birth as moi) is going grey. Then there was the eternal rock adolescent; that Peter Pan figure of Bruce Springsteen at the Superbowl doing the obligatory rock star slide on his knees. The only problem was that it ended badly when he slipped off the stage like a beer in a hackneyed comedy film that slides along the bar and onto the floor. As one pundit put it, it left the cameraman at the end of the abortive slide with zipper marks from the Boss’ crotch. Then there was the moment in the film “Milk” where the character Harvey Milk reflects that he is turning 40 and he hadn’t done anything with his life. All totally depressed me for a moment, till I remembered that my friends Rupa and Chris had both gone to see Leonard Cohen rocking out in Australia (at the sprightly age of 74) and wowing them in New York last week. He is still singing and painting. To borrow from Paul Kelly and Mark Seymour’s song “Hey boys, we’ve got a lot of work to be done”. Time to start doing things. But first I am going to take time to think about which cartoon character I would want to be if I was to end up in a cartoon graveyard. You have to keep things in perspective after all.