In Bangladesh, sports Polly horses – or the game of wrestling – is a methodical and precise affair, a tone that Iqbal Chaudhry reinvented in his first film, “The Wrestler.” Stretching the line between observational and indirect, the film seems designed to dazzle and frustrate in equal measure, gesturing toward masculine boundaries in an often overcast, bucolic coastal setting without fully expressing them.
By leaving much of his story to intuition—and taking a climactic turn toward the surreal—Chowdhury crafts a subtle, slow-burning drama about a kind of obsession that, though ambiguous, seems utterly tragic. Its primary focus is on elderly wrestler/wrestling coach Mojo (Naseeruddin Khan), an elderly hunter whose frustrations over his lack of a recent catch lead him to challenge local hero Dufour (AKM Itmam). Then again, this economic plight is just one of several possibilities pushing Mojo toward certain self-destruction (and he’s the only one who comes close to expressing it verbally), because when “Gladiator” begins, it seems to be far down that emotional path.
Mojo’s son Shavo (Angel Noor) has recently married a woman named Rasho (Priam Archie), and he’s taking out his frustrations as well, though they’re concerned about his mental state and physical well-being, given his new quest. . However, Chavo and Racho’s relationship also proves instructive, reflecting the film’s themes of masculinity in specific ways. The first we see of Chavo is in the mirror applying eyeliner, much to Mojo’s dismay. When he returns at night, he ignores Rashu’s hesitant advances and sleeps on a floor mat instead, covering himself with a mosquito net. Whatever the truth—whether Chavo is a closeted queer man, or simply rejects all masculine expectations—he encircles himself in the process.
The subtle symbolism of this mosquito net, as a self-imposed prison, pervades the rest of the film, especially in its quieter moments. Much of the film consists of eerie stillness and long, deliberate shots. This is the type where “nothing happens,” and yet so much happens. The wrestlers often sit around a small bar and silently let the glow of Bangladeshi romantic classics on television wash over them (like Mustafa Anwar’s “Kashim Malar Prem”). These scenes take on a pulsating irony — given the raw violence inherent in the men’s pastime — and make even the wide-open coastal setting seem like a liminal space scored mostly as gentle waves, aided by sparse, imaginative notes from composer Randas Badsha.
Once the consequences of Mojo’s challenge become the focus of the film, the entire film turns to these surreal concepts. On the one hand, this makes the underlying motivations of its characters seem more ambiguous. On the other hand, every action, inaction and reaction remains strangely familiar, making Choudhury’s disciplined approach feel like the right one. His rare moments of close-up and formal flourishes (such as movement in extreme slow motion) strike like lightning in the process, but for the most part, his camera stays at a distance, looking at its characters in order to scrutinize the masculine form while trying to evoke masculine function.