Review: The Iron Claw

Director:  Sean Durkin

Stars:  Zac Efron, Harris Dickinson, Holt McCallany

In Sean Durkin’s superb 2011 feature debut Martha Marcy May Marlene the then-relatively-unknown Elizabeth Olsen wows as a young woman trying to de-program herself from the twisted teachings of a sinister cult leader. The film’s flashbacks walk a tightrope of grim fascination, but there’s as much tension in the present day sequences in which Olsen’s Martha is both helped and challenged by her older sister Lucy (Sarah Paulson) and Lucy’s bullshit-averse husband Ted (Hugh Dancy). The whole, therefore, presents two versions of family; one to be reckoned with and one to be overcome.

Durkin’s belated and similarly under-seen next film, 2020’s The Nest, continued what now appears to be a preoccupation or through-line in his feature work. Through the lens of ’80s avarice on both sides of the Atlantic another, tighter family portrait was presented to us; a war of want boasting powerhouse performances from Jude Law and Carrie Coon.

One might be tempted to call The Iron Claw the third in a loose trilogy from a director whose feature work has yet to put a foot wrong. Taking inspiration from a true American tragedy – one so pocked with misfortune and loss that Durkin was moved to whittle it down to keep from pummelling his audience – The Iron Claw takes us to heartland Texas and the tightly bound Von Erich clan; brothers united under tough and embittered patriarch Fritz Von Erich (Holt McCallany). A professional wrestler who scraped the glory that always eluded him in the ring, Fritz openly uses his sons to continue reaching. He’s their father and their coach. A strict leader who’ll deal only in successes. Emotions and personal problems are your own business. Take it up with your brothers.

His Boys-Don’t-Cry brand of fatherhood and its effects on his brood are primarily what’s investigated here. Zac Efron is beefed up to the point of grotesque physical distortion as eldest (living) son Kevin, a simple man with a big heart who – it is made clear in his courtship of Pam (Lily James) – has already given up his youth for his daddy. Next is Kerry (Jeremy Allen White), whose road to Olympic glory as a discus thrower is dashed when Reagan pulls the US out of the 1980 games. Fritz promptly draws him back into the family business. David (Harris Dickinson) is steadfast and supportive, an athlete coming into his own in the ring, vying guilelessly for the number one spot in daddy’s affections. Last and youngest is Mike (Stanley Simons), whose interests lie far from the wrestling ring, but whose timidity and temperament keep him from protesting when tragedy comes knocking.

And it knocks so awfully hard for these boys.

There are flashes of punishing training sessions, bodily abuses, posterior injections, all in the service of the family dream. And there are peppered matches, showing us both the machismo performative aspect of professional wrestling and the physical punishment of it. But The Iron Claw is more concerned with the undisclosed battles happening outside of the ring. Efron’s hulking physique is typical of the sport, but Durkin’s interest is in soft underbellies, even as their exposure runs in direct violation of father Fritz’ command. Durkin argues – and argues well – that this stifling of soul is as much to blame for the succession of losses that befell the family as any mythologised family curse. In the process he paints a kind of fraternal Virgin Suicides, where death is always in the family portrait. The family farm feels like it sits in limbo between this world and the next.

In it’s first half, The Iron Claw can feel quite buzzy and nostalgic. Durkin and his crew evoke the early ’80s well. His scenes feel like they have the dirt and smell of the period, and of Texas’ hyper-specific brand of patriotic Americana; something marketed well across the world. Heartland classic rock favourites like Blue Oyster Cult breeze on the soundtrack. Hairstyles are tragic. It’s an earthen recreation. Pure vibes. But as the toll mounts for the Von Erichs, make no mistake, it becomes a far weightier picture, and a run of tragedies thick and fast around the hour mark move it into a whole different register. The bonds of brotherhood are looked on tenderly here. At a remove from this bond, Fritz seems yet more resentful, perching like a hawk on the sidelines. There’s some King Lear in him.

The film itself is gorgeous. Durkin is unafraid of dark and gloom, or the grit and grime of film and how it reacts to light. There’s a delicacy to his work carried over from previous features. And then there’s this stable of actors. McCallany ought to read as a one-note villain for his portrayal of Fritz, but he doesn’t. There’s enough pain and confusion in the man to make it human. Efron is so unassuming that one might overlook him (like the Academy has), but for the tenderness that is ultimately given space to bloom. Dickinson and Allen White continue to showcase why they’re among the hottest young names around, while relative unknown Simons creates something unique, memorable and honest in would-be musician Mike, arguably the most tragic figure in all of this. Durkin has some alchemy with actors. Once again he’s caught lightning in a bottle several times over.

I’ll admit something here. My interest in wrestling is none. I came to this picture on the strength of its cast and its director, whose previous work I (obviously) admire greatly. Yet, The Iron Claw uses the stagy theatrics of the sport as a counterpoint to the more human challenges happening in this legacy story. To reflect and embellish them. To throw them into relief. Durkin doesn’t demean or condescend the sport. He portrays it as something taken seriously by serious people. He makes arguments for it that speak to, one assumes, his own fondness. This communicates. I was in the ringside action.

With Barton Fink the Coens joked that there was no such subgenre as the “wrestling picture”, yet we have a few now, pulled from sources diverse and surprising, by diverse and surprising filmmakers. The Iron Claw is one of them – and maybe the best of them – but it’s also a lot more than that. It’s a family saga, and a picture about a broader America and a patriarchal malaise that its director nakedly hopes is in its demise. Durkin is Canadian. So often, it seems, the most curious and acute American films seem to need an outsider’s eye. Durkin’s eye’s doing just fine.