As the X-Men story continues to unfold on the screen, I sense some sort of panicky scramble behind the scenes of this post-Bryan Singer franchise. Like, if you’re on an airplane, and you receive word that the pilot has just had a stroke, and somebody’s going to have to land the plane: who will it be? Who’s most qualified?

Why, it’s Gavin Hood– the director of Tsotsi! Thank goodness. I thought we were screwed.

Not that Bryan Singer’s take on the franchise and its characters was flawless, but Singer has a knack for this stuff, and knows how to modulate an action film without relying on too many clichés. His X-Men films felt confident and intact.

I feel like this film is continuing in the wrong direction on the precedent set by X3; Wolverine is liked by so many fans for the exact reasons that do not appear in this film. It feels like a two-hour trailer, or the flashy centerpiece of a film student’s resume portfolio; your favorite characters make cameos so that you can say, “Hey! There’s so-and-so!” Everybody looks good, but what’s holding it together? The action is, you know, action-y, but I don’t get the sense there are any real characters underneath it all.

I like Hugh Jackman. I think he looks the part, and I think he has a genuine concern for the material, but I can finally say confidently that he’s just somehow wrong for the character of Wolverine. Maybe it’s solely the script’s fault: he comes off as likeable, gallant, gullible, and soft. Yeah, that’s right– I called him soft. Sure, he cuts stuff up real good, but it feels tacked on by mandate of the script rather than an extension of his character. He seems a rube, the perpetual victim to the schemes of those around him. With as much as has been given to his back story (and by “back story,” I mean the events that comprise Logan’s life ten to fifteen years before the first true X-Men film) how can he still feel so shallow? The clever and abrasive anti-hero is absent; the animal nature that makes him such a favorite among fans seems like a hasty footnote more than a visceral reality to the character. I’m not remotely unnerved by Jackman’s Wolverine, and I think I should be. Oh– occasionally he roars and makes a mean face. That’s not quite going the distance.

The credit sequence offers great promise. It’s a striking (if gratuitous and odd) montage of the brothers Logan and Victor Creed (Sabretooth, played by Liev Schreiber, who makes for a pretty good villain) as they fight in various wars throughout history. The montage hints at the visceral possibilities of the story that are never again fully investigated, and I felt shortchanged. It does, however, beg the question, why were they fighting in all these wars? To satisfy bloodlust? Because they were bored?

This is one of many questions the film doesn’t answer. When it feels like it’s becoming mired in plot points it simply rushes headlong for the finish line; Ryan Reynolds’ Deadpool is a victim of such clumsiness.

The X-Men universe is, in my opinion, probably one of the most difficult to wrangle successfully onto a screen. The cast is enormous, the mythology vast and difficult to pin down, and the stories seem as a whole less emotional than they are purely spectacular. Even saying that, the movie could use more spectacle, as some of the locations look either plain or cheap. Some of the effects, too, look canned. That shot where Wolverine’s walking away from the exploding helicopter– wow. Should have looked at that one again fellas.

Maybe I’ve sounded like this movie is a failure. It’s not; not really. It’s perfectly watchable action entertainment, and it’s certainly better than X3. But the flaws in approach have been building for a while now, and it’s clear that more could be done to fully realize these characters to their full potential.

Mickey Rourke is Randy “The Ram” Robinson, the former professional wrestling star, once important enough to headline sold-out events in every major arena across the US, once relevant enough to have his own action-figure, once transcendent enough to be a character in a Nintendo game, once universal enough to be a poster on every teenaged boy’s wall. Now, he’s left to wrestle in high school gyms before a hundred or so people on weekends, working in the warehouse of a grocery store unloading trucks during the week. Now, kids have moved on to playing Call Of Duty 4 on their Playstation 3; his video game more of a lame novelty with crappy graphics. Now, the tattered posters that remain of the once great Ram are pasted across the back of his van, which rests in front of the trailer that he can’t afford to keep up with the rent on. But the 20^th anniversary of his most memorable match is forthcoming, and with that he’s offered one last shot in the spotlight. The clichés might be overwhelming if they all didn’t make perfect sense. But Rocky this is not.

Ram’s story is shadowed by that of Marisa Tomei’s character, Cassidy, a 30-something or older stripper who, like Ram, is past her prime in an industry where, like it or not, time decides your expiration date for you. It’s natural for Ram to feel a connection with Cassidy, and he does, beyond the stripper/patron relationship. But the feeling isn’t exactly reciprocated. To make things worse the years of abuse—alcohol, pain pills, steroids—have finally caught up with Ram. After a brutal hardcore match where he’s been blasted and bloodied by a glass door, steel chairs, a ladder, somebody’s fake leg, and a stapler, Ram has a heart attack. The doctor tells him that if he wants a chance at living, that he can no longer do the only thing he’s ever known; wrestle. And so is established the overlying metaphor of The Wrestler.

Ram’s daughter is played briefly—and brilliantly—by Evan Rachel Wood. She represents everything that Ram would like to change, but after years of neglect, even to the point where he tried to make-believe she didn’t exist; he knows absolutely nothing about her, only how to find her. For the man who was once adored by millions, now he wants more than anything to not be hated by the one person who he should have loved more than everything else all along. The task seems daunting, if not impossible, but Ram seems to finally be at a place where he’s willing, and able, to give her what she always wanted: a father. The question is will he, can he?

Critics of wrestling as a sport are quick to say that it’s fake, the outcome predetermined. As much as there is truth in that line of criticism The Wrestler is proof positive that there’s nothing fake about the harsh reality that is the life of a professional wrestler; the broken bones, the broken bodies, the broken lives. Director Darren Aronofsky didn’t make a documentary in the literal sense of the word, but like any brilliant, truly personal movie, The Wrestler could just be the best documentary ever made about wrestling. But its message isn’t specific to wrestling. You don’t need to have worn tights, laced up boots, or taken a body slam in your life to feel the struggle of being at a place where you have to face the fact that you’ve let yourself become what you are, and the prospects of completely overhauling everything you’ve ever known to try and have an honest chance at a future are daunting enough to scare you into submission. The Wrestler is a movie that’s both hard to take your eyes away from at the same time it’s almost impossible to watch. The film looks and feels exactly as it should: rough, seedy, shaken, and, at times, worn down. There’s nothing easy about it. And there shouldn’t be.

The Wrestler will make you cheer, and it will just as easily make you cry. But isn’t that life? Few films portray the highs and lows of life as brilliantly as The Wrestler does. Rourke and Tomei were both nominated for Oscars for their roles and deservedly so; they are once in a lifetime performances that define careers. The movie is about triumph and failure, struggle and redemption, pain and admiration. Moreover it’s about heart, and what it means to have one. But sometimes heart alone isn’t enough to carry you where you want to go. We’re creatures of habit, and habit is a tough thing to wrestle with.