Feeble ‘Queen of the Ring’ is stuck in a headlock
She stood a mere 60 inches, but Mildred Burke loomed large in the annals of sports history as one of the most influential figures in the founding of women’s wrestling. But very few know of her today, an omission filmmaker Ash Avildsen seeks to rectify with “Queen of the Ring,” his mostly true biopic starring Canadian actress Emily Bett Rickards as the grappler best known as the Kansas Cyclone.
Based on Jeff Leen’s book of the same name, “Queen of the Ring” has been constructed with reverence and a generous amount of sex appeal, emblematic of an athlete who worshipped at the altar of feminism and physical fitness. It’s said a photo of Burke – clad in a bathing suit and executing a flexed pose – once graced the walls of the Los Angeles Police Department as a means to shame flabby male officers into whipping themselves into shape.
Fitting since Millie rose to fame by humiliating cocky dudes certain they could slip between the ropes and dispatch the “little lady” in seconds, only to slink from the ring stripped of their pride. Legend has it that she lost to but one of the hundreds of males she throttled while barnstorming on the carnival circuits in the 1930s. Imagine what she did to her female foes when she and her future husband, Billy Wolfe (Josh Lucas), helped pioneer women’s professional wrestling at a time when many states still forbade it.
Fascinating, right? Wrong! At least not Avildsen’s pedestrian rendition of Burke’s tale, one of perseverance and heartbreak, the latter mainly triggered by Wolfe’s cheatin’ heart. Avildsen, the son of “Rocky” director John G. Avildsen, displays none of his father’s prowess in crafting a rousing profile of a massive underdog rising from obscurity to media sensation. Everything about “Queen of the Ring” feels perfunctory. Avildsen sweats so hard attempting to integrate all the highs and lows of Burke’s 20-year career that he forgets to give us a reason to care.
It’s not for lack of an all-in effort by Rickards (“Arrow”), who is captivating to the eye. She’s the personification of beauty and beast, sexy as hell as her Millie maneuvers acrobatically across the ring, flipping opponents on their ears and ensnaring them in her patented “alligator clutch.” And, yes, when Rickards flexes her biceps, those guns are the real thing, rendering Millie “armed” and dangerous.
Yet, the film mostly fires blanks, getting bogged down in the soap opera elements of Burke’s turbulent relationship with the physically abusive Wolfe, a prolific wrestler in his own right. The arrogance Lucas emits in the role makes Wolfe a man you love to hate, more so when he proves himself the Harvey Weinstein of his time, assembling a harem of “lady wrestlers,” most of whom must enter his bed before entering the ring.
I doubt the real Wolfe was this ruthless and flagrantly sleazy, but Avildsen persists in that portrayal. If nothing else, “Queen of the Ring” is consistent in fostering the idea that Millie is good, Billy bad. There’s no complexity to either. Nor is there much backstory beyond Millie’s roots in Dullesville, Kansas, a bored, single mother toiling for tips in a diner owned and operated by her single mom (Cara Buono). Where and when did she summon the moxie and confidence to demand – and acquire – almost all that she desires? And why can’t she muster that same strength in the presence of a slug like Wolfe, whose only positive attribute seems to be his dogged championing of women rasslers?
What ensues is a predictable succession of triumphs and setbacks as Millie and her peers run head-on into an array of sexist promoters and officials refusing to see what’s right before their noses – a huge hunger for female brawlers. Whatever happened to giving the people what they want? I know I wanted more, as well as knowing more about them.
The likes of Mae Young (Francesca Eastwood), June Byers (real-life wrestler Kailey Farmer), Elvira Snodgrass (Marie Avgeropolous), Gladys Gillem (Deborah Ann Woll) and Babs Wingo (Damaris Lewis) were jointly responsible for taking lady wrestling from taboo to what is now a multi-million-dollar enterprise. But all are ill-defined at best. Ditto for Burke’s son, Joe Burke Jr. (Gavin Casalegno); Wolfe’s scion, G. Bill Wolfe (Tyler Posey); and celebrated promoter Jack Pfefer (a wasted Walton Goggins).
Much of that deficiency is rooted in Avildsen’s cliched writing, which includes anachronistic vernacular such as Billy telling Millie, “Don’t let ‘our story’ end here.” And clunky lines like, “I don’t wanna sell the tickets. I wanna be on the ticket,” delivered by a lowly carnival worker angling to join the troupe.
Just as anemic are the film’s production values. The movie was made on the cheap and looks it, from scenes consisting of stock black and white footage from the 1930s and 40s, to male actors sporting ungroomed locks and beards more in tune with the 1980s than the 1940s. Was Avildsen too pinched to hire a consultant? The costumes aren’t much better. They, too, look inauthentic.
Surprisingly, it’s the wrestling that appears most realistic, even though we’re repeatedly reminded that almost all professional wrestling is scripted. The only exception is a “shoot,” which is a legit throwdown between challengers with personal scores to settle, as was the case with Burke and her longtime rival Byers.
Their infamous 1954 match bookends the film, and it’s maximized to its fullest potential, the epitome of what Billy aptly describes as the place where “theater meets circus.” If Avildsen had taken that slogan closer to heart, “Queen of the Ring” might have reigned supreme. Instead, it abdicates Burke’s throne, knocking her underserved story right on its crown.
Movie review
Queen of the Ring
Rated: PG-13 for suggestive material, domestic violence, strong language, smoking, violence
Cast: Emily Bett Rickards, Josh Lucas, Walton Goggins, Tyler Posey, Francesca Eastwood, Cara Buono, Kailey Farmer, Marie Avgeropolous, Kelli Berglund, Deborah Ann Woll and Damaris Lewis
Director: Ash Avildsen
Writer: Ash Avildsen
Runtime: 135 minutes
Where: In theaters March 7
Grade: C+