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Sporting suspicious silver hair and clothes more suited to a man at least four decades younger, his face was a peculiar mash-up – eyes out of alignment, sunken rubbery cheeks and pumped-up lips.
In the 1980s Mickey Rourke was the quintessential bad boy.
If I can’t have thunder and lighting then I won’t have anything.” When he proposed to her, he threatened to kill himself with a sword if she said no.
She later filed charges of marital abuse, charges she then dropped.
Rourke basically is Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, a wrestler who once played Madison Square Garden but now fights in high school gyms with a hearing aid and a dodgy ticker.
It is an astonishingly complete performance, as raw and masochistic as American cinema has seen.
Rourke was one of few to popularise the power suit beyond the confines of the New York Stock Exchange.
He took the look from Fifth Avenue to Fashion Week, and deconstructed it at will.
But, as one of the few celebrities to experience fame, lose it, and then recover, the 66-year-old is a reminder of a time when stars were elusive, comebacks were rare, and the suits were bulkier and brasher than ever before.
The wrestlers pitch ideas for choreography as sensitively as dance instructors; Randy plays as himself on an old Nintendo video game (a symbolic eighties relic to his child-opponent’s preference for); his nametag at the deli where he works is misprinted as ‘Robin’.
These aren’t gratuitous gags, but jolts of post-fame ennui that Rourke plays as deftly as the fight scenes.
You know the sort: shoulders wide enough to concuss passers-by, peak lapels sharp enough to cut glass.
Following the success of and actual Wall Street, dressing like a trader with more money than morals was decidedly in.