The whole award show phenomenon — and now, season — of which the GGs are but one of many — are rituals to the yearnings and covetousness of wanna-bes, wanna-remains and wanna-haves surrounding the handful of stars who, with ineffable brilliance from within ever tinier bodies, power whole industries and countless careers. They are mostly young women who have this rare quality. This year's It girls were Angelina (still) and Drew (it's genetic). The saddest figures in the spotlight were those desiccated girls who no-longer-are: too thin, too worked-out, drained of light and energy. Occasionally, though, a young male actor will stir a similar kind of passion and commerce — think Brad Pitt (still), and such icons of yore as the young Marlon Brando and James Dean, as we watch their fall from spectacular heights to decadence or early death. These fellas seem to leave an even deeper trace on our collective pop imaginations. Mickey was once such a star: sexy and cool, but with enough pock-marked toughness to appeal to all genders.
In The Wrestler, he plays a fading "face," the good guy character whom the crowd roots for and who ends up winning the wrestling bout so beaten down that his own daughter rejects his overtures and would-be reformation. The "humor" noted in the ad blurbs is of a painful variety: that all Mickey had to do to play Randy the Ram was to act naturally. He is singularly perfect for the role, from the tanning salon to the hair lightening scenes. Not only in the fictional past of the film, but in "real life," Mickey's once-pretty-boy face has been battered and has endured countless jabs of the fist and needle to become a puffy, misshapen topography of a desperate grasping at immortality. The not altogether ambiguous moment upon which the film ends abruptly leaves us in a limbo of glorious mania, in which we can avoid the obvious reality of Randy's fate.
As Motorcycle Boy in Rumble Fish and other early roles, Mickey nurtured our fantasies of being in love with him, or being his best friend — the only one who could really appreciate him and get through to his soft interior. But then came Enter the Dragon and 9½ Weeks, the cringe-worthy plastic surgery and hair choices — the impolitic character in real life and not just a chameleon who plays at roles.In Gogol's Diary of a Madman, Titular Councillor Poprishchin's descent into madness is signaled by the advent of letters from the boss's daughter's poodle to her best doggy friend. I happen to have in my possession a thank-you note sent to Hollywood Foreign Press members signed by both Mickey and his crusty old lap dog who travels with him everywhere. I imagine that Mickey really believes his dog signed the letter. To an extent we join in the illusion and celebrate the unlikely return of this shadow of a star, his second moment in the sun, a tribute to all that work done. We all got to our feet when he won the award, a true Hollywood moment, not celebrating the ones who "have it," but of the rest of us who seem to be willing to do just about anything to get a little of that glow, by working hard for it or standing close to it, selling our souls for it. Mickey's win is the triumph of the outsider, the hustler, and the anguished haughtiness of the executive arm candy hoping to be mistaken for someone big. The struggle has been worth it. The Botox worked, magically. ■