Mildred Burke is (not so) known for being the first million dollar female athlete in history. At a time when women’s professional wrestling was not just frowned upon, but largely illegal, Burke broke barriers and helped to popularize what has since grown into an essential piece of sports entertainment. Based on Jeff Leen’s book The Queen of the Ring: Sex, Muscles, Diamonds, and the Making of an American Legend, and adapted by director/co-writer Ash Avildsen, Queen of the Ring is a surefire crowd-pleaser that leans into formula to deliver an exciting, if scattered biopic.
Professional wrestling, as we all now know it, is as much about feats of athleticism as it is about theatricality. A performer can’t just be a skilled fighter, they must also know how to work a crowd, build a character, and tell a story both in the ring and beyond. You’ve got your faces (the good guys), your heels (the bad guys), and your jobbers (the no-namers who exist to get beaten up by the stars — it’s also where the term “jabroni” comes from). During the film’s opening moments, narration from Burke assures us that even though wrestling is staged, this wasn’t always the case. Which isn’t to say that the craft started as a legitimate sport and devolved into show, just that sometimes, especially in the case of Burke, actual fights must be fought. Be it a shooter match (a fight held behind closed doors to determine who will win on stage), or a real world battle for acknowledgment in an arena dominated by men, Burke was constantly engaged in a battle.
A personal note: never tell a wrestler that what they do is fake. They’re as athletic as anyone else in the sports world. Google “Roddy Piper on Bill Maher” to see what happens when you spout that BS to a pro.
At over two hours long, the film has an odd rhythm, and I wonder if the story would have been better served as a series. The film’s first act is a formulaic “don’t tell me what I can’t do” narrative, which chronicles Burke’s fight to prove herself worthy of the ring. It’s here where formula is employed the heaviest, and to minimal success. Burke is immediately quite goof at her craft, leaving her zero-to-hero ascension feeling undercooked and less than compelling. It’s Emily Bett Rickards’ firecracker performance which gets the film through its stumble of a start. Rickards is a natural superstar, ready for her moment, just like our on-screen hero. She’s charming as can be, and quite believable in a physical sense. I’m a man who weighs over 200 lbs and I’d be hesitant to get into the ring with her!
It’s in the film’s second act that the story picks up steam and expands beyond the shallowly executed conceit of “woman in a man’s world.” It’s here that women’s wrestling shifts from the underground to the mainstream, and Burke’s struggle to prove herself as an individual is given to a much larger scope. She must now prove that women belong in the business end of things, and with full agency. Her promoter/fiancé Billy Wolfe (Josh Lucas) is the face of patriarchal villainy, but to the credit of the script, and to Lucas’ performance, he’s portrayed as a complicated figure. It also helps that he’s surrounded by men of varying degrees of character, including the considerably more progressive Jack Pfefer (Walton Goggins). This added depth helps prevent the film from falling into a black and white boys vs girls story, but it also serves to highlight how underserved a few of the women in the ensemble cast prove to be.
This isn’t the fault of any one performer, but rather due to the film being at war with its own story. Is it trying to tell the story of Mildred Burke or to deliver a full history of all the athletes who pioneered the women’s wrestling movement? In trying to do both, it leaves each mode feeling a bit undercooked. It’s a shame considering how impressive the supporting cast is. Francesca Eastwood delivers an electric turn as fellow wrestler, and proud lesbian, Mae Young. She’s a woman deserving of her very own film, but she merely dips in and out of this story as needed. Elvira Snodgrass (Marie Avgeropoulos) lights up the screen every time she appears, but is given nothing to do. And a trio of Black wrestlers led by the legendary Babs Wingo (Damaris Lewis) are all but abandoned to the sidelines, despite the tremendous thematic resonance their story could’ve added to the film.
One would imagine that the source novel goes into great depth (I’d love to read it), much of which is lost in trying to turn it into a Rocky flick. The material would likely be better served in a longer format that would grant it the breathing room it so desperately needs. But as a piece of cinema, it’s a frequently gorgeous film (many scenes are evocative of an Eakins painting — swoon), which prioritizes sets and locations over fully digital artifice. This is enhanced by some really nice lighting, and wonderfully executed costume/production design. We won’t talk about the bizarre score and distractingly anachronistic needle drops.
And since this is a sports film, it all has to come down to one final match, and as far as final matches go, it’s a winner. It’s hard not to get wrapped up in this one, even if it doesn’t quite pack the punch of its stylistic forbears. Director Ash Avildsen is undoubtedly a talent, and has constructed an exciting film about an unsung character from sports history. It’s almost fitting that the film’s main flaw is the same as its heroine’s Achilles heel: it struggles under the weight of its ambition.
Directed by Ash Avildsen
Written by Ash Avildsen, Alston Ramsay, based on the book by Jeff Leen
Starring Emily Bett Rickards, Josh Lucas, Cara Buono, Kailey Farmer
Rated PG-13, 130 minutes
