If you’re in search of historic parables for Draymond, you can look further afield than the NBA and arthouse pop from the aughts. His plight is not unlike the one that faces Warriors wing, point forward, center, and resident tortured genius, Draymond Green. He’s told at one point in the film that his heart can’t take much more of the stress he applies to it when he performs, that even one more match could kill him, and he has to decide whether to live a life on someone else’s terms, or sacrifice it all to live the only way he knows how. He’s fucked up his life and his career, and he’s ruined his body. The closest he ever came to a pure pop confection was The Wrestler, a 2008 comeback vehicle Mickey Rourke should’ve won an Oscar for about an old, broken down, sadomasochistic WWE type on the margins of the industry who only loves the ring. Darren Aronofsky is America’s first and foremost master of misery, an expert at making slick and gorgeous things that make us feel absolutely terrible.
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