I hope that fat fuck plastic surgery nightmare gets the Oscar to prove once and for all that being typecast as the washout that you really are in real life can still be deemed 'acting' and that between Aronofsky's return to his roots after that stinker of a Fountain and Tomei's 'still-has-a-nice-rack-even-at-44' performance, it really is Rourke that drives this baby home and shamelessly points out the lyrical beauty of hasbeendom, making a Jesus out of a wrestler, Passion of the Christ style, and ending it in the only way that it really could have ended - in mid air - above the rest - falling to your death.